LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

PRESENTED  BY 


MRS.  THOMAS  A.  DRISCOLL 


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BASSET 

A  VILLAGE  CHRONICLE 


C^BUFL 


DR.  MARK  AND  MRS.  LATIMER 


"Somebody   said — I   forget   who   it  w/as — that  if  one  had  one's    duty    and    a    dream. 
one    had    enough    for    life." 

Page  207 


// 


BASSET 

A  VILLAGE   CHRONICLE 


BY 

S.   G.  TALLENTYRE 

AUTHOn   OF 

'the  life  of   VOLTAIRE"    "tHE   FRIENDS   OF   VOLTAIKE' 

"the  life  OF   MIRABEAU"  ETC. 


Frontispiece  by  C.  M.  BUIiD 


NEW    YORK 

MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 

1912 


/^A^ 


Copyright,  1910,  by 

MOFFAT,  YARD    AND  COMPANY 

New  Yokk 


FOURTH  PR ly TING 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 
I. 

Harry,  the  Squire 

PAGE 
1 

II. 

Harry's  Wife 

23 

III. 

Parson  Grant 

59 

IV. 

Dr.  Richard 

89 

V. 

Dr.  Mark 

109 

VI. 

The  White  Cottage 

148 

VII. 

The  Chantry 

170 

VIII. 

Sir  John 

203 

IX. 

My  Lady 

227 

X. 

An  Ending    . 

252 

XI. 

A  Beginning 

283 

BASSET 

CHAPTER  I 

HARRY^   THE   SQUIRE 

Some  seventy  years  ago,  when  that  coarse, 
choleric,  good-natured  old  gentleman,  Wil- 
liam IV.,  had  just  vacated  the  throne  of 
Britain;  when  sanitation  and  popular  edu- 
cation were  not;  when,  with  luck,  one  could 
still  find  noble  lords  to  frank  one's  letters, 
and,  without  it,  might  still  fight  a  duel  or  be 
imprisoned  for  debt;  when  the  railway  sys- 
tem was  in  its  hopeful  infancy,  and  the 
stage-coach  in  a  vigorous  old  age;  when  Is- 
lington was  a  country  suburb,  and  the  only 
fault  of  Tottenham  and  Highgate  was  to 
be  too  remote  and  rural;  when  policemen 
were  called  "  peelers,"  and  omnibuses  "  shilli- 
beers";  when  all  young  men  looked  (only 
looked)  immeasurably  more  serious  and  re- 
spectable than  any  young  men  do  now;  when 
young  ladies  bought,  and  wore  on  each  side 
of    the    face,    three    little    curls,    and    daily 


2  BASSET 

ironed  them  out  iii^on  the  kitchen  table  to 
keep  them  crisp  and  fresh;  when  a  large 
public  really  supposed  that  in  Mrs.  Hemans 
and  L.E.L.  burnt  the  divine  fire,  and  that 
"  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw "  was  a  work  of 
genius; — in  these  darkly  remote  ages  the  vil- 
lage of  Basset  lay  a  hundred  coach  miles 
from  London,  five  from  the  little  town  of 
Dilchester,  and  three  from  any  other  ^-illage. 
The  word  "  lay "  is  used  advisedly ;  for 
though  Basset  may  be  identified,  it  will  not 
be  found.  In  the  old  man  one  can  indeed 
trace  the  boy;  but,  not  the  less,  the  boy — 
with  the  boy's  spirit  and  the  boy's  heart — is 
gone  for  ever. 

Basset  had  a  much  too  large  Norman 
church,  which  the  piety  of  a  chatelaine  of 
Basset  ^lanor — tempus  George  III. — had 
"  improved  "  with  two  galleries. 

Without  the  church  was  the  callage  green, 
where  the  local  louts  mooned  and  spat  on 
Sunday  mornings  during  the  service.  On 
the  green  were  the  disused  stocks,  and  a 
large  slimy  pond,  which  the  village  always 
drank  and  never  connected  with  the  typhus 
which,  by  some  special  dispensation  of  Prov- 
idence, was  not  always  epidemic. 

Looking  on  to  the  green  were  some  charm- 


HARRY,  THE  SQUIRE  3 

ingly  picturesque,  thatched  cottages,  with 
roses  creeping  up  them,  and  within,  too 
often,  nameless  vice  and  disease — the  fruits 
of  over-crowding.  Then  there  was  the  dame 
school — which  really  did  no  harm;  the  public- 
house — which  did  a  good  deal — though  it 
looked  pastoral  and  guileless  enough,  with 
the  old,  smock-frocked  Hodges  smoking  their 
long  clay  pipes  and  drinking  their  ale  out  of 
mugs,  on  the  rude  bench  outside  the  door. 
The  doctor's  low,  red  house  had  a  flagged 
path  up  to  it,  and  homely  flowerbeds  on 
either  side  of  the  path — tended  by  the  doc- 
tor's good  lady,  with  her  skirt  well  pinned 
up,  and  an  expression  of  dogged  resolution 
upon  her  face.  The  very  small,  genteel,  cot- 
tage near  the  doctor's — the  obsolete  and 
expressive  word  "  genteel "  was  much  in 
vogue  then — belonged  to  Miss  Pilkington, 
who  was  the  daughter  (of  course)  of  a  late 
Rector  of  Basset,  who  had  lived  very  com- 
fortably and  hospitably,  keeping  his  horses 
and  carriages  like  a  gentleman,  and  had 
left  his  daughters  useless  and  portionless. 
The  Rectory  was  a  large,  roomy  place — 
rather  sunless  and  damp,  only  nobody 
bothered  about  aspects  in  1837 — with  a 
capital  garden  and   a  paddock. 


4  BASSET 

On  rising  ground,  looking  down  on  the 
village,  stood  the  low,  rambling  house  that 
belonged  to  Sir  John  Railton,  a  real,  live 
baronet,  who  used  periodically  to  try  to  en- 
dure the  quiet  and  tedium  of  Basset,  in- 
variably discover  it  was  not  to  be  done,  let 
the  Chantry,  and  return  to  Crockford's  and 
Newmarket.  A  couple  of  prosperous  farms 
— these  were  the  days  of  Protection — also 
overlooked   the    village. 

About  half  a  mile  from  it — old,  grey 
stone,  Elizabethan — lay  Basset  Manor.  It 
had  a  long  row  of  sunny  bedrooms  and  a 
cheerful  parlour  on  its  upper  floor,  and,  on 
its  lower,  dark,  oak-panelled  living-rooms 
and  vast,  rambling  kitchens.  Without,  there 
were  first-rate  stables,  lawns  and  bowling- 
green,  grass  paths  through  the  high-walled 
kitchen  garden,  and  beds  of  untidj'^  flowers. 
Here,  the  Squires  of  Basset  had  reigned 
since  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  sometimes 
doing  that  which  was  evil  in  the  sight  of  the 
Lord,  and  sometimes  that  which  was  good, 
but  more  often  doing  nothing  in  particular, 
except  enjoy  themselves. 

Just  about  the  time  of  the  demise  of  King 
William,  young  Harry  Latimer  attained  his 
majority,    and    his    mother,    who    had    long 


HARRY,  THE  SQUIRE  5 

reigned,  but  not  ruled,  at  Basset  Manor, 
died. 

From  her  portrait — that  of  a  youngish 
woman,  with  a  vague  blue  eye  and  a  pretty, 
feeble  face — it  is  easy  to  account  for 
the  lax,  hospitable,  happy-go-lucky  charac- 
ter the  Manor  attained  in  her  day;  and 
also  for  a  certain  spoiled  obstinacy  which 
lay  deep  down  in  the  character  of  her 
son. 

Every  person  in  Basset  went  into  mourn- 
ing when  she  died,  and,  of  course,  Harry 
and  his  household  into  the  most  lugubrious 
mourning  of  all.  Then  he  set  up  to  her 
memory  in  Basset  church,  just  above  the 
Manor  pew,  a  huge  and  dreadful  tablet,  on 
which  were  inscribed,  in  the  richest  tomb- 
stone English,  the  virtues  she  had  never 
possessed. 

He  used  to  read  that  inscription  during 
the  Morning  Service  for  many  Sundays 
after  her  death,  with  some  emotion  and  a 
comfortable  sense  of  having  amply  done  his 
duty.  After  a  while  he  gave  it  a  bow  of 
mental  acknowledgment  only;  and  at  last 
entirely  forgot  its  presence,  and  the  colour- 
less personality  it  commemorated;  yawned 
rather  obviously  through  the  sermon,  winked 


6  BASSET 

a  cheery  blue  eye  at  a  friend  in  the  gallery, 
and  was  himself  again. 

Presently  he  had  a  lively  coming  of  age 
dinner-party  at  the  jNIanor,  and  a  headache 
next  morning — and  came  into  his  own. 

It  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  braver  and 
jollier  figure  than  Harry  Latimer  at  one  and 
twent3\  With  his  fair  head  and  ruddy  Eng- 
lish face,  his  well-set  person,  already  in- 
clining to  a  little  stoutness,  his  capital  seat 
on  a  horse,  his  first-rate  animal  spirits,  his 
generous  share  of  pluck  and  daring,  and  his 
love  of  sport  and  the  open — he  might  have 
sat  for  the  typical  British  country  gentle- 
man of  that  day,  but  that  he  was  not  suffi- 
ciently thick-headed. 

True,  Squire  Hariy  never  opened  a  book 
and  only  skimmed  a  newspaper,  but  he  had 
a  shrewd  enough  mind,  though  it  w^as  chiefly 
devoted  to  finding  himself  new  pleasures. 
For  this  young  gentleman  had  plenty  of 
money  for  his  amusements  without  working 
for  it,  and  an  estate  wdiich  was  not  too  ex- 
tensive for  a  single  agent  to  manage — or 
to  mismanage — unassisted. 

About  ten,  then,  every  day — except  on  a 
hunting  morning — the  Squire  came  down  to 
his  breakfast,  opened  the  post-bag,  threw  the 


HARRY,  THE  SQUIRE  7 

bills  on  to  a  side-table,  and  screwed  the 
moral  advice  from  an  aunt — his  mother's 
elder  and  sterner  sister — into  a  ball  and 
aimed  it  neatly  at  the  fire,  or  the  fireplace. 
He  spread  open  the  little  Times — yester- 
day's— on  the  sideboard,  and  gained  an  idea 
of  its  contents  (which  was  all  he  wanted) 
as  he  cut  himself  cold  beef. 

His  real  interests  were  confined  to  Basset; 
as  all  Basset's  real  interests  were  in  itself. 
Naturally,  when  one  had  to  endure  the 
long  discomforts  of  a  stage-coach,  or  the 
heavy  expenses  of  posting,  to  reach  one's 
relations,  one  seldom  attempted  to  reach 
them;  and  when  the  recipient  of  their 
verbose,  heavy-weighted  letters  had  to  pay 
the  postage  there  was  less  than  no  induce- 
ment to  keep  up  a  correspondence.  While, 
as  for  news  from  foreign  countries,  Harry, 
in  common  with  many  Englishmen  of  his 
class  of  that  day,  had  never  seen  any,  and 
despised  them;  honestly  pitied  benighted  per- 
sons who  spoke  any  language  but  his  own; 
and  had  been  taught  by  Mrs.  Latimer  that 
English  would  be  the  mother-tongue  of 
heaven. 

The  agent,  a  thin-lipped  and  shifty-faced 
person,    arrived   before    Harry    had    finished 


8  BASSET 

his  second  cup  of  coffee.  Those  blue  eyes  of 
the  Squire  were  by  no  means  defective  in 
penetration  of  character,  but  it  would  have 
been  a  confounded  nuisance  to  be  always 
suspecting  everybody,  so  Harry  comfortably 
assumed — on  the  principle  of  the  negligent 
mother,  who  invariably  finds  paragons  of 
nurses  and  governesses  to  do  her  own  duty 
by  her  cliildren — that  the  agent  was  honest 
and  diligent,  and  listened  with  half  an  ear  to 
his  dull  stories  of  land  drainage  and  tumbhng 
cottages. 

Mr.  Phillips  had  his  morning  dram;  and 
sometimes  Harry  also — and  Harry  went  out 
to  the  stables. 

A  love  and  a  knowledge  of  horseflesh 
had  been  in  the  blood  of  the  Latimers  since 
Latimers  there  w^ere.  There  was  stabling 
for  a  dozen  horses  in  the  great  stables  of 
Basset  Manor,  and  generally  eight  or  ten 
in  possession  of  them.  The  stalwart,  hand- 
some boy,  W'ith  his  beautiful  roan  mare, 
Victoria — his  coming-of-age  present  to  him- 
self— nosing  up  to  him  for  the  contents  of 
the  breakfast  sugar-basin,  which  he  always 
prodigally  emptied  into  his  pocket,  would 
have  been  a  w^orthy  subject  for  that  very 
rising   genius    Mr.    Landseer.      The    stables 


HARRY,  THE  SQUIRE  9 

were  much  the  best  kept  part  of  Harry's 
household.  The  grooms  and  ostlers  knew 
their  master's  knowledge  of  their  business; 
and  the  extreme  freedom  of  his  expletives — 
a  freedom  he  shared  with  better  men  than 
himself — kept  them  up  to  the  mark. 

In  the  garden  he  was  frankly  uninterested. 
Flowers  were  the  business  of  women,  and 
Harry  would  as  soon  have  blacked  his  own 
boots  as  worked  in  his  own  garden.  So  he 
simply  strolled  round  it,  quite  unobservant, 
with  his  couple  of  pepper-and-salt  dandie 
pups  at  his  heels.  Sometimes  he  threw  a 
silver  fourpenny  bit  and  a  good-natured 
word  to  the  dirty,  grinning  urchin  who  was 
sweeping  up  leaves,  and  who  knew  quite 
well  that  the  fourpenny  and  the  good-nature 
were  dependent,  not  in  the  least  on  his  own 
conduct,  but  entirely  on  his  master's  feel- 
ings at  the  moment. 

As  Harry's  housekeeping  consisted  simply 
and  entirely  in  sending  the  cook  a  glass  of 
port  when  the  dishes  were  good,  and  return- 
ing them  with  contumely  to  the  kitchen  when 
they  were  bad,  it  did  not  occupy  much  of  his 
day;  but  occasionally  the  cook,  a  tall,  thin 
lady,  to  whom  her  master  would  by  no  means 
have  dared  to  give  a  conge,  appeared  in  the 


lo  BASSET 

dining-room  with  a  sheaf  of  bills,  at  the  sum 
total  of  which  Harry  always  grumbled,  in 
the  sanguine  hope  that  the  grumbling  would 
reduce  their  amount  for  future  occasions. 

Then  he  played  with  the  dandies,  Dim 
and  Tim,  and  wrote  half  a  letter;  played 
with  the  dandies  again,  tore  up  the  half 
letter,  and  decided  to  write  the  whole  to- 
morrow, and  by  that  time  Victoria  was  at  the 
door.  It  was  only  on  these  leisurelj^  non- 
hunting  days  that  he  had  time  to  ride  her 
easily  along  the  narrow  country  lanes  or 
the  turnpike  road  to  the  five-mile  distant 
market-town. 

For  Harry  was  the  most  regular,  as  he 
was  the  straightest  rider  to  hounds  in  the 
county;  the  j oiliest  and  most  fearless,  of  a 
brave  and  jolly  age,  in  the  hunting-field. 
He  was  Master  of  the  Hounds  at  one  and 
twenty,  and  the  Hunt  breakfasts  at  Basset 
Manor  in  those  days  are  still  proudly  re- 
membered in  the  village.  The  garden-boy — 
he  of  the  grin  and  the  fourpence — is  an  old 
man  now,  and  can  still  recall  something  of 
those  fine,  pleasant,  chilly  English  morn- 
ings, with  the  men  in  pink,  and  the  impa- 
tient dogs  and  horses,  fretting  to  be  gone, 
on  the  drive  in  fix)nt  of  the  Manor  windows. 


HARRY,  THE  SQUIRE  ii 

On  the  excellent  personal  testimony  of  the 
kitchenmaid,  sister  to  the  garden  boy,  no 
other  Hunt  breakfast-table  groaned  under 
viands  so  many  and  costly  as  did  Harry's. 
On  the  word  of  the  county,  he  was  one  of 
the  most  popular  Masters  it  ever  knew,  with 
his  fair,  flushed  face,  and  his  loud,  good 
spirits;  and  yet,  withal,  taking  his  sport 
with  the  gravity  and  earnestness  befitting  an 
Englishman. 

But  on  frosty  days,  or  in  the  non-hunting 
season,  Harry  and  Victoria — Dim  and  Tim 
having  been  left  in  tears  in  the  dining-room 
— rode  leisurely  through  Basset  village. 

All  the  smock-frocked  Hodges  greeted  him 
as  he  went  by,  and  were  proud  of  such  a  well 
set-up  young  lord,  and  Harry  had  a  salute, 
with  his  riding-whip,  and  a  pleasant  word  for 
everybody.  His  heart  and  pocket  were  al- 
ways open  to  the  tales  of  woe  the  old  gran- 
nies, with  many  an  apologizing  curtsey, 
stopped  him  to  tell  him.  As  he  gave  his 
guinea  or  his  florin  without  investigating 
the  story,  he  was  immensely  popular  with 
those  sufferers — the  largest  class — whose 
stories  do  not  bear  being  pried  into,  and 
as  he  was  irrevocably  good-natured  and  in- 
curably sanguine,  he  really  had  not  the  least 


12  BASSET 

difficulty  in  honestly  believing  what  he  was 
told. 

When,  in  one  of  his  own  outlying  cot- 
tages— a  most  picturesque,  rose-covered 
place,  quite  unfit  for  decent  human  habita- 
tion— a  man  laj^  dying  of  typhus,  the  Squire 
put  a  couple  of  bottles  of  port — the  remedy 
in  those  days  for  every  human  ill — into  the 
dee})  pockets  of  his  riding-coat,  and  pleased 
the  sufferer  by  the  present  far  more  than  if 
he  had  rebuilt  the  cottage,  whose  insanitary 
condition,  neither  Harry  nor,  indeed,  any 
one  else  held  responsible  for  the  suffering. 

Sometimes,  in  the  country  lanes,  he  would 
meet  old  Dr.  Benet,  trotting  calmly  by  in 
his  gig.  "Hie!  doctor,"  says  Harry,  and 
bethinking  himself  that  there  is  no  time  like 
the  2^resent,  and  that  he  lias  felt  the  most 
uncommon  painful  twinges  in  that  left  foot 
lately,  pulls  up,  and  takes  a  httle  "nonsense 
and  advice." 

To  be  sure,  if  the  advice  took  the  form, 
as  it  sometimes  did  (for  Dr.  Benet  was  per- 
fectly honest  as  well  as  shrewd),  of  "  patience 
and  flannel,"  or  a  few  glasses  less  in  the 
evening,  Harry  changed  the  subject,  Avaved 
his  whip  in  a  farewell  salute,  and  remem- 
bered,   as   he   rode   off,    the   abysmal    depths 


HARRY,  THE  SQUIRE  13 

of  ignorance  the  faculty  often  displayed, 
and  the  ghastly  mistakes  the  cleverest  made 
at  times,  and  had  his  usual  quantity  of  port 
at  night.  Whereas,  if  Dr.  Benet  did  not 
mention  the  port  as  a  probable  cause  of 
the  ailment,  Harry  comfortably  considered 
it  might  be  a  cure — and  had  a  couple  of 
glasses   extra. 

Sometimes,  for  he  was  really  exceedingly 
kind-hearted,  he  trotted  around  of  an  after- 
noon and  paid  his  respects  to  Miss  Pilking- 
ton,  at  the  genteel  cottage  near  the  doctor's. 
She  was  tremblingly  delighted  at  his  visit — 
almost  all  old  women  loved  Harry,  and  but 
too  many  young.  He  spread  a  zone  of  mas- 
culine largeness  and  untidiness  in  her  nar- 
row, prim  parlour;  and  when  she  anxiously 
produced  cake  and  wine — these  were  the 
dark  ages  before  afternoon  tea — he  delighted 
her  by  finishing  the  whole  cake  with  his 
healthy,  young  appetite,  and  swallowed  a 
couple  of  glasses  of  her  unique  feminine 
brand  of  sherry  wine  as  if  he  liked  it.  He 
further  prescribed  for  her  canary;  it  had 
lost  all  its  feathers,  and  looked  so  undressed 
and  indecent  she  had  covered  up  its  cage 
with  a  handkerchief,  a  proceeding  which 
caused  her  guest  to  roar  with  laughter,  and 


14  BASSET 

enjoy  himself  vastl3\  When  he  went  away, 
he  seemed  to  take  with  him  free  air  and  the 
sunshine. 

His  visit,  and  the  pleasant  things  it  came 
naturally  to  him  to  say,  lay  warm  about 
Rachel  Pilkington's  heart,  and  she  did  not 
know,  or  at  least  not  for  a  long  time,  that 
with  the  Squire,  as  with  many  other  people, 
out  of  sight  was  entirely  out  of  mind,  and 
that  for  him  there  was  no  such  thing  as  a 
past  or  a  future,  but  only  the  present 
moment. 

Now  and  again,  riding  by  the  Rectory 
gate  put  him  in  mind  of  the  grim  old  Par- 
son, and  he  rode  up  to  the  windows  of  the 
study — falsely  so  called  in  this  instance — and 
thumped  on  them  with  that  ever-useful  riding- 
crop. 

The  Parson  was  a  straight  shot,  and  had 
a  military  history  before  his  clerical,  so 
Harry  could  resj)ect  him,  with  self-respect. 
While,  if  church-going  had  been  any  pass- 
port to  his  favour,  he  should  certainly  have 
liked  Harr}'-,  who  was  regular  in  attendance 
there,  and  if  the  sermon  were  less  dull  than 
usual,  actually  listened  to  it,  with  a  hand  on 
each  knee,  and  a  rather  surprised  expression 
of  countenance;  sang  the  psalm  lustily,  with 


HARRY,  THE  SQUIRE  15 

great  enjoyment  to  himself;  while  once — at 
least  once — when  a  young  man  from  Dil- 
chester  had  occupied  the  pulpit,  and  been 
very  pathetic  over  a  Ragged  School,  a  close 
observer  might  have  surprised  a  moisture  in 
Harry's  blue  eyes. 

If  Harry's  religion  affected  his  emotions 
rather  than  his  conduct,  emotionalism  is, 
after  all,  the  whole  religion  of  persons  far 
more  professedly  devout  than  the  Squire  of 
Basset. 

Perhaps  as  often  as  once  a  week,  when 
there  was  nothing  to  hunt  or  shoot,  Harry 
rode,  or  drove  his  phaeton — he  was  an  adept 
at  the  ribbons — into  Dilchester.  There,  he 
would  stand  about  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
old  inn,  "  The  Case  is  Altered,"  and  take 
bets  with  the  other  idlers  (waiting,  as  he 
was,  for  the  arrival  of  the  coach  from  Lon- 
don) as  to  the  probability  of  these  new  rail- 
roads, beginning  to  be  opened  all  over  the 
country,  ousting  the  good  old  coaches  out  of 
it  at  last.  Harry,  who  had  on  every  subject 
that  delightful  facility  for  believing  that 
what  he  did  not  wish  could  not  possibly  come 
to  pass,  quite  refused  to  foresee  the  decline 
of  horseflesh;  so  did  the  landlord,  also  a 
stout,  sanguine  person. 


1 6  BASSET 

At  last,  with  a  fine  craclving  of  whips, 
and  a  cheery  noise  and  bustle,  in  comes  the 
coach  to  a  minute;  the  frozen  passengers 
descended  from  the  roof,  and  the  asphyxiated 
ones  inside  were  pulled  out  from  masses  of 
bags  and  bundles  by  the  guard.  The  old 
coachman  used  to  point  out  Harry  to  the 
passengers,  with  a  sort  of  proprietary  pride 
in  him  and  his  smart  phaeton  and  cobs. 
Harry  had  an  easy,  all-men-are-equal  air 
with  the  coachman,  as  he  had  with  every- 
body; with  the  landlord's  arch  and  ogling 
daughter,  and  the  ostler,  whom  he  had  just 
damned  impatiently  for  some  neglect  of  duty. 
The  parcels  of  things  he  had  ordered  from 
London — a  fine  new  coat  from  the  crack 
tailor  in  Jermyn  Street  among  them — were 
packed  into  the  phaeton;  Harry  drove  off; 
and  the  idlers  looked  after  him,  and  envied, 
and  lazil}^  admired  him. 

Not  seldom  of  an  evening  there  was  a 
jolly  bachelor  party  at  Basset  Manor. 

At  half-past  five,  Harry  and  a  half  a 
dozen  neighbouring  squires  sat  down  to  dine 
— and  were  still  sitting  at  half-past  eight. 
Intoxication  as  a  fashionable  vice  had  passed, 
or  was  fast  passing,  away,  and  Harry  and 
his    friends    were    certainly    not    intoxicated. 


HARRY,  THE  SQUIRE  17 

But  the  quantity  they  drank  would  as  cer- 
tainly suffice  to  lay  their  degenerate  grand- 
sons under  the  table;  and  that  the  liveliness 
of  the  parties  was  largely  born  of  the  bottle 
need  not  be  denied.  Tim,  the  smaller  dan- 
die,  used  to  search  on  the  floor,  lest  the  revel- 
lers should  luckily  and  inadvertently  have 
dropped  anything  toothsome.  Dim  would 
sit  on  the  hearth,  with  his  vast,  wide  head 
very  much  on  one  side,  gravely  considering 
the  lords  of  creation  enjoying  their  noble 
and  rational  pleasures. 

Occasionally,  the  party  played  cards;  once 
they  stole  out  and  caught  a  couple  of  poach- 
ers, red-handed,  in  the  very  act,  in  Harry's 
modest  preserves. 

Of  course,  Harry  cursed  the  offenders  at 
the  moment,  and,  equally  of  course,  let 
them  off  in  the  sequel;  a  prosecution  being 
such  a  confounded  lot  of  trouble!  But 
though  Harry  seldom  took  any  except  for 
his  pleasures,  it  must  be  accounted  to  him 
for  righteousness  that  for  them  he  took 
often  a  very  great  deal,  that  he  enjoyed 
with  a  refreshing  heartiness  and  simplicity, 
and  was  neither  bored  nor  fastidious  in  his 
amusements.  If  the  Basset  dinner-table  was 
overladen,    it    may    be    remembered    that    its 


1 8  BASSET 

host  had  often  been  walking  all  day  among 
the  turnips,  with  a  shooting  lunch  consisting 
of  absolutely  nothing  but  a  hunch  of  bread 
and  cheese,  stuffed  into  his  pocket.  He 
would  drive  himself  a  dozen  miles  in  his 
phaeton  to  a  dinner-party  in  the  teeth  of 
a  black  North-Easter;  and  it  is  certainly  on 
record  that  one  eventful  night,  in  a  bitter 
midwinter,  muffled  to  the  eyes,  he  rode  to 
Dilchester  to  the  assembly  ball,  through  the 
deepest  snow  of  years. 

The  ball-room  w^as  uncomfortably  stuffy 
and  crowded  when  he  got  there;  wax  candles 
in  great  glass  lustres  lit  the  scene,  and  often 
shed  showers  of  wax  over  the  good-tempered 
dancers;  the  fiddlers  in  a  gallery  made  up  in 
energy  what  they  lacked  in  tune  and  time, 
and  the  supper  was  principally  distinguished 
by  an  untidy  plenty.  But  w'hat  did  that 
matter?  Harry  was  the  best  dancer  and  the 
handsomest  man  in  the  room;  and  a  steward 
presently  introduced  him  to  Miss  ^lary 
JNIatthews,  of  Clayton  Hall,  near  Dilchester, 
aged  eighteen,  and  vastly  enjoying  herself  at 
her  very  first  ball,  under  the  fond  and  strict 
chaperonage  of  a  mother  in  a  cap  and  a  grey 
silk  gown,  sitting  on  a  dais  and  watching^ 
not  the  party,  but  Mary  at  it. 


HARRY,  THE  SQUIRE  19 

Pollie  was  a  very  slight  little  creature,  not 
really  pretty,  but  with  such  bright  curls  and 
such  a  bright  face  that  she  conveyed  an 
impression  of  prettiness.  The  family  history 
records  that  she  was  dressed  in  white  muslin 
— which  was  then  not  simply  a  synonym  for 
the  obsolete  virtues,  but  a  stiff  fabric  actu- 
ally worn  by  young  women  at  balls.  Her 
feet  beneath  it,  in  the  satin  slippers  she  had 
made  herself,  were  aching  to  be  dancing  and 
off.  Harry  loved,  first,  her  freshness  and 
vigour,  her  ndif  and  new  delight  in  the  party 
and  in  life;  and  she  loved  Harry— prin- 
cipally because  she  was  at  the  age  to  love 
somebody,  and  so  far  had  scarcely  spoken  a 
dozen  times  to  any  man  under  fifty  except 
her  writing-master,  who  had  been  twice 
widowed,  and  was  of  a  homely,  eruptive 
countenance. 

Let  it  be  added  that  Pollie  was  now,  as 
she  was  ever,  a  most  generous,  candid,  quick- 
tempered, honourable  and  intelligent  little 
person,  with  her  bright  wits  certainly  not 
stifled  by  study,  and  with  a  mind  and  heart, 
like  the  age  in  which  she  lived,  full  of  be- 
ginnings  and   possibilities. 

She  danced  all  the  dances  with  Harry  she 
could,     with     Madam — ^herself     aged     about 


20  BASSET 

thirty-eight,  but  feehng  and  seeming  older 
than  a  woman  of  sixty  does  now — con- 
scientiously regarding  her  from  the  dais. 
At  the  end  of  the  evening — an  immensely 
long  evening,  and  seeming  so  dreadfully 
short! — it  was  Harry  who  handed  INIadam 
and  Pollie  to  their  landau,  with  old  John- 
Coachman,  in  his  flaxen  wig,  and  with  liis 
fat,  friendly  face  smiling  from  his  box  at 
our  JMiss  and  the  good-looking  Squire  in  his 
swallov\- tails  and  the  handsomest  waistcoat 
the  eye  of  man  ever  saw. 

It  was  Harry  who,  the  ver}^  next  day,  sat 
down  to  compose  a  most  serious  letter — 
making  savage  threats  of  kicking  Dim  and 
Tim  when  they  interrupted  him — in  which 
he  set  forth  in  very  manl}^  terms  the  state 
of  his  heart  and  his  fortune,  and  begged  the 
leave  of  her  mother  to  pay  his  addresses 
to  JMiss  ]Mary  ISIatthews  at  once. 

INIiss  JNIary  IMatthews  being  fatherless,  her 
mother  had  to  take  counsel  with  a  pompous 
and  worldly  uncle,  with  a  stock  and  fob,  who 
looked  very  sharply  and  narrowly  into 
Harry's  money  affairs,  and  piously  hoped 
for  the  best  regarding  Harrj^'s  character,  or 
shared  the  common,  convenient  belief  that  men 
"  for  the  most,  become  much  more  the  better 


HARRY,  THE  SQUIRE  21 

for  being  a  little  bad."  Then  the  Squire 
rode  over  to  Clayton  Hall  on  Victoria,  and 
some  very  thin  excuse  about  the  character 
of  a  housemaid;  and  Pollie  came  out  to  the 
door,  with  the  curls  shading  a  very  becoming 
blush,  gave  Victoria  some  sugar,  and  heard 
something,  in  spite  of  the  curls,  that  Harry 
bent  over  to  say  in  her  ear. 

After  that,  came  a  solemn  dinner — a  partie 
carree  at  Clayton  Hall— when  the  uncle  and 
Mrs.  Matthews  sustained  a  dull  conversation 
a  deux,  and  Harry  and  Pollie  tried  hard  to 
catch  glimpses  of  each  other  round  the  great 
epergne  containing  trifle,  which  occupied  the 
middle  of  the  table.  The  next  day  Harry 
brought  Pollie  a  little  pearl  ring.  The  two 
were  alone  together  perhaps  three  hours — 
for  three  minutes  a  time — during  their  court- 
ship. 

Once,  indeed,  Harry  drove  Pollie  and  her 
mother  over  to  Basset  Manor,  and  announced 
his  lovelorn  and  philistine  intention  of  build- 
ing Pollie  a  sham  Gothic  arbour  in  the 
garden,  and  replacing  the  excellent  old 
Georgian  furniture  in  the  drawing-room 
with  a  suite  in  rosewood  and  crimson  satin; 
and  on  this  occasion  the  pair  were  actually 
in  sole  possession  of  each  other  for  half  an 


2  2  BASSET 

hour,  while  INIadam  JMatthews  went  to  in- 
spect the  Hnen  cupboards.  But  what  use 
was  half  an  hour,  with  Harry  bewitched  and 
intoxicated  with  Pollie's  extreme  vivacity, 
and  Pollie  in  love  with  love? 

Presently,  Madam,  who  w-as  nothing  if  not 
good  and  conscientious,  made  her  daughter 
sit  down  with  her  and  sew  at  a  most  excel- 
lent, serviceable  trousseau,  and,  as  they 
worked,  set  forth  to  the  spirited  Pollie  the 
"  mild  and  compliant  mind  "  the  ideal  wife 
always   exhibited. 

Finally,  there  w^as  a  wedding,  with  the 
bells  ringing,  and  all  Dilchester  en  fete;  a 
wedding-breakfast,  with  speech-making  and 
incessant  health-drinkings ;  and  at  last  the 
phaeton  and  that  pair  of  spanking  cobs  at 
the  door,  the  luggage  strapped  up  at  the 
back,  the  bridegroom  in  his  great,  caped 
driving-coat,  the  bride  with  her  face  bloom- 
ing and  glowing  under  a  beaver  bonnet, 
the  cobs  dancing  to  be  off^shoes,  rice,  cheers 
— and  Harrj'^  and  Pollie  had  driven — into 
futurity. 


CHAPTER  II 

Harry's  wife 

In  the  archives  of  Clayton  Hall,  there  was 
found  the  other  day  the  little  packet  of  let- 
ters the  new  Mrs.  Latimer  wrote  to  her 
mother  on  her  wedding  trip.  Does  any 
bride  out  of  a  book  declare  in  such  letters 
whether  she  is  happy  or  unhappy  during 
these  momentous  weeks?  Certainly  not  any 
bride  with  the  strong  good  sense  of  Pollie. 
The  first  letter  described  the  journey  by 
phaeton  to  London,  and  the  sights  there; 
how  Harry  had  shown  Pollie,  Tattersall's, 
and  the  new  National  Gallery  in  the  place 
where  the  old  King's  Mews  used  to  be;  and, 
best  of  all,  that  good,  wise,  resolute  little 
Queen,  riding  of  an  afternoon  with  Lord 
Melbourne.  Next,  Harry  took  Pollie  their 
first  triji  in  a  steam  carriage  on  one  of 
the  new  railroads,  and  Pollie,  much  im- 
pressed, wrote  of  the  "  surprising  velocity  " 
of  the  motion.  (It  was  to  some  purpose, 
after  all,  she  had  composed  a  pattern  epistle 

33 


24  BASSET 

three  times  a  week  in  the  schoolroom  to 
an  imaginary  correspondent.) 

After  London,  the  pair — knowing  and 
content  to  know,  that  this  was  the  trip  of 
their  lives,  and  that,  once  back  in  Basset, 
Dilchester  would  be  almost  their  furthest 
limit — crossed  the  Channel  and  posted  to 
Paris.  From  there,  Pollie  wrote  her  inten- 
tion of  embroidering  Harry  a  beautiful 
waistcoat  in  fuchsias — the  waistcoat  to  come 
as  an  entire  surprise  to  him,  and  so  only  to 
be  worked  when  he  was  out.  A  subtle  ob- 
server might  have  drawn  deductions  from 
the  fact  that  just  a  fortnight  later  the  waist- 
coat was  announced  as  finished. 

Finally,  the  couple  recrossed  the  Chan- 
nel— six  hours  in  the  packet-boat  in  the 
teeth  of  a  contrary  wind — rejoined  the  cobs 
and  phaeton,  and  went  a  tour  round  the 
cathedral  cities  of  England.  By  cathedral 
III — Lincoln — Harry  had  sworn  off  cathe- 
drals entirely  and  for  ever,  and  had  gone 
to  a  horse-show  instead;  but  Pollie  con- 
scientiously sketched  nearly  all  of  them,  not 
worrying  about  perspective,  but  achieving 
results  at  least  showing  grip  and  spirit. 

The  subtle  observer  might  again  have 
made  deductions,  not  only  from  the  number 


HARRY'S  WIFE  25 

of  the  sketches,  but  from  the  length  of  time 
and  the  undivided  attention  evidently  be- 
stowed upon  each  of  them. 

Just  three  months  after  the  wedding-day, 
Basset,  having  erected  a  triumphal  arch  with 
a  very  intoxicated-looking  "  Welcome "  in 
cotton-wool  on  it,  mustered  its  whole  popu- 
lation in  its  one  street,  and  cheered  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  as  Harry  drove  the 
phaeton  to  the  Manor.  He  looked  his  ever- 
joll}^  robust,  good-natured  self,  and  the  bride 
seemed  the  merest  slip  of  a  bright-eyed 
little  girl  beside  him.  Miss  Pilkington, 
having  punctiliously  paid  her  wedding  call  at 
the  Manor  two  days  later,  shook  her  kind 
head,  and  said  she  hoped — meaning  she  did 
not  think — so  gay  a  creature  could  be  fit 
for  the  responsibilities  of  marriage. 

Yet  it  may  be  that,  even  on  their  wedding 
journey,  Pollie  had,  very  dimly,  begun  to 
realize  that  there  might  be  drawbacks  for 
the  wife  in  the  happy  temperament  of  a  hus- 
band who  was  so  incapable  of  believing  any- 
thing but  the  best  that  he  never  prepared 
for  the  worst;  and  that  if  he  was  always 
careless,  it  might  behove  her  to  be  more 
than  commonly  careful.  Still,  it  was  a  very 
eager  and  trusting  Pollie  who  had  come  back 


26  BASSET 

to  the  JNIanor,  quite  read}^  to  believe  that  any 
little  disillusions  of  the  Avedding  journey 
were  due  to  her,  as  yet,  necessarily  imper- 
fect understanding  of  the  nature  and  con- 
stitution of  man. 

She  had  been  excellently  well  taught  by 
her  mother — then  absent  in  the  West  of 
England  nursing  a  sick  sister — to  tackle 
man's  domestic  difficulties  for  him. 

Harry  thought  Pollie  looked  uncommonly 
pretty — and  so  she  did — with  a  housekeeping 
apron  pinned  to  her  very  slender  bodice,  and 
with  the  heavy  household  kej^s  in  a  great 
pocket,  when  she  went  off  after  breakfast 
their  first  morning  at  Basset  Manor  for  a 
preliminary  engagement  with  Harry's  cook. 
He  looked  up  from  pulling  Tim's  ears  and 
laughed  at  her  alert  and  business-like  air,  and 
said  he  shouldn't  advise  her  to  bother  herself 
over  old  Jones,  as  Jones  always  had  done 
just  what  she  liked  and  always  would;  and 
Pollie,  who  had  been  told  that  it  was  her 
duty  to  make  her  dependents  do  theirs,  said, 
"  Not  with  me,  Harry,"  with  such  a  fine 
determination,  that  Harry  laughed  the  more. 
However,  Mrs.  Jones,  who  was  nearty  a  foot 
taller  than  her  mistress,  and  could  have 
picked  her  up  in  one  hand  and  shaken  her. 


HARRY'S  WIFE  27 

very  soon  became  mild  and  apologetic  under 
Pollie's  fearless  and  truthful  eyes,  and  learnt 
to  clean  and  tremble. 

Harry  gave  Pollie  quite  large  sums  of 
money,  at  quite  uncertain  intervals,  by  way 
of  making  a  housekeeping  allowance,  and 
though  the  sums  were,  at  first,  far  more 
generous  than  was  necessary,  and  Pollie 
j)erched  a  kiss  on  the  top  of  his  head  in 
grateful  acknowledgment  of  them,  she  was 
aware  all  the  same  that  this  was  not,  so  to 
speak,  the  way  to  do  business. 

When  she  dismissed  an  artful  housemaid, 
who  had  gauged  her  master's  character  and 
taken  advantage  of  his  convenient  habit  of 
shutting  his  eyes  to  everything  that  was 
awry,  Harry  was  much  less  pleased.  Jane 
had  made  him  very  comfortable  and  had 
seemed  all  right,  so  of  course  she  was  all 
right!  In  fact,  Harry's  theory  was  that, 
since  reformation  was  always  resented  by  the 
reformees  and  made  the  reformer  deucedly 
unpopular,  why  reform?  Pollie,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  always  been  given  to  understand 
that  to  do  nothing  is  often  to  do  wrong. 
She  looked  up  at  Harry — they  were  sitting 
together  after  dinner  on  an  evening  a  few 
weeks  after  they  came  home — and  returned 


28  BASSET 

to  the  bright-coloured  wool-work  antimacassar 
she  was  making,   without   saying  anything. 

In  the  mornings,  she  used  to  walk  round 
the  garden  with  him,  in  the  little,  thin,  in- 
adequate black  satin  boots  in  which  the 
women  of  that  epoch  followed  their  lords 
through  the  rough  places  of  the  world  with 
a  courage  and  spirit  their  stoutest-shod  sis- 
ters of  to-day  have  not  exceeded.  Harry  was 
not  wholl}^  pleased  with  her  when  she  noticed 
the  immense  discrepancy  between  the  seeds 
and  bulbs  bought  and  the  flowers  raised. 
But,  as  he  had  really  rather  desired  the  end, 
though  not  enough  himself  to  take  the  means, 
he  was  quite  pleased  when,  in  the  sequel,  the 
florist's  bills  were  few  and  the  flowers  many. 

Soon,  the  JNIanor  gave  the  first  of  several 
large  and  solemn  dinner-parties  to  the  other 
manors  and  halls  of  the  neighbourhood,  and 
Harry  was  wholly  delighted  ^^ith  the  ponder- 
ous excellence  of  the  feast  Pollie  and  Mrs. 
Jones  had  been  busily  preparing  since  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 

No  husband — certainly  not  such  a  new 
and  good-natured  one  as  Harry — could  have 
failed  to  admire  the  ^vife  he  caught  sight  of 
at  times  round  the  silver  candelabra  and  the 
piled-up  dishes  set  out  on  the  table.    Even  a 


HARRY'S  WIFE  29 

trousseau-frock  of  a  heavy  silk  of  a  crude 
mild-blue,  could  not  take  away  the  colour 
and  brightness  from  Pollie's  face;  as  the  fact 
that  she  knew  very  little  could  not  take  away 
the  natural  intelligence  of  her  conversation. 
The  knighted  IMayor  of  Dilchester,  who  was 
her  neighbour,  was  quite  delighted  with  her, 
and  told  Harry  over  the  wine  afterwards 
what  a  lucky  man  he  was.  Perhaps,  as 
Harry  was  passing,  quite  gradually,  to  the 
more  normal  marital  attitude  of  feeling  that 
Pollie  was  a  lucky  woman,  the  information 
did  no  harm. 

In  the  drawing-room,  when  all  the  rest 
of  the  company  had  made  music  after  tea — 
everybody  sang  and  played  in  those  days, 
nobody  very  badly  and  nobody  very  well — 
Harry  roared  out  to  Pollie's  accompaniment 
the  jovial  history  of  Cax^tain  Wattle,  "  who 
was  all  for  love  and  a  little  for  the  bottle  "; 
and  then  one  of  the  comic  songs  from  the 
"  Vocal  Library,"  a  song  with  that  obvious 
and  primitive  wit — the  wit  of  the  practical 
joke  and  the  pun — which  has  long  ceased  to 
amuse.  It  amused  that  simpler  and  cheer- 
ful comi^any,  however. 

Harry  and  Pollie's  dinner-parties,  having 
begun  at  half-past  five,  did  not  break  up  till 


30  BASSET 

ten.  It  was  not  to  their  inordinate  length 
that  sensible  Pollie  ascribed  Harry's  cross- 
ness the  next  morning.  She  accepted  man — 
as  most  of  the  women  round  her  had  to 
accept  him — as  a  creature  who,  though  cer- 
tainly no  longer  drinking  to  intoxication,  yet 
on  festive  occasions  necessarily  saw  the  world 
much  en  rose  at  the  moment,  and  much  en 
7ioir  the  next  day.  When  Harry  kicked  Dim, 
not  at  all  severely,  when  Dim  unw^ittingly 
got  in  his  way,  and  Dim,  offended  more  than 
hurt,  rubbed  his  face  against  Pollie's  frock 
asking  an  explanation,  Pollie,  stroking  the 
large  head,  whispered  to  him  that  this  was  one 
of  the  small  things  of  life,  which  he  and  she 
must  not  mind. 

To  be  sure,  it  was  also  a  small  thing  that 
Harry,  having  very  generousl}^  bestowed 
trifling  weekly  pensions  on  some  old  folks  in 
the  village,  invariably  forgot  to  pay  them; 
and  that,  having  faithfully  promised  Mr. 
Philli2)s  to  come  and  inspect  the  roof  of  some 
distant  cottage,  he  scarcely  ever  remembered 
the  promise;  and  Polly,  inventing  a  pudding, 
was  constantly  being  called  away  from  her 
duties  to  see  to  Harry's,  Harry  being  out 
shooting  (it  was  now  early  autumn)  with  a 
neighbouring  squire. 


HARRY'S  WIFE  31 

It  was  also  a  small  thing  that  Harry  put 
off  answering  his  letters  until  his  corre- 
spondents wrote  to  inquire  of  Pollie  if  he 
were  dead;  that  he  stuffed  business  communi- 
cations into  his  pockets,  and  gaily  ignored 
their  existence;  and  that  he  was  always  mean- 
ing to  order  hoes  and  rakes  for  the  garden- 
ers, and  never  doing  it. 

Still,  to  every  hundred  persons  who  can 
bear  with  courage  the  blows  of  Fate,  there  is 
about  one  who  can  equably  support  her  slaps. 
Pollie  was  astonished  to  find  such  trifles  could 
annoy  her ;  when  Harry  saw  she  was  annoyed, 
and  offered  her  a  new  lace  tippet  from  Lon- 
don to  make  up,  Pollie,  conscientiously  re- 
fusing the  tippet  because  there  were  already 
three  in  her  trousseau,  came  to  Harry  all  the 
same  and,  laying  her  soft  and  glowing  cheek 
against  his,  said  that  she  had  not  meant  to 
be  cross. 

It  was  Harry's  turn  to  be  a  little  cross 
presently,  when  the  weather  turned  wet  and 
the  gout  in  his  toe  kept  him  to  the  house  for 
a  few  days. 

He  was  not  a  person  of  resources,  and  it 
was  naturally  a  little  annoying  to  him  to  find 
that  Pollie  was;  for  to  see  others  contented 
with  things  that   do  not   content  one's   self, 


32  BASSET 

is  seldom  pleasing.  When  the  household 
duties  were  done,  Pollie  found  footstool- 
covers  positively  calling  out  to  be  beaded ;  and 
sat,  looking  verj^  pretty  and  quite  absorbed  in 
her  occupation,  bj^  Harry's  side.  Then,  one 
day,  hobbling  into  the  librarj^  on  the  foot  he 
had  been  expressly  forbidden  to  put  to  the 
ground,  he  found  his  wife  on  the  toj)  of  the 
steps  by  one  of  the  great  book-cases,  wholly 
and  entirelv  absorbed  in  the  Spectator  of 
Joseph  Addison.  Harr}^  never  reading  him- 
self, entertained  a  dark  suspicion  that  there 
was  something  a  little  imfeminine  about  a 
woman  who  could  not  rest  satisfied  with  ]Miss 
Terrier's  "  Destiny,"  Heath's  "  Book  of 
Beauty,"  and  the  illustrations  in  Thomson's 
"  Castle  of  Indolence " — all  adorning  the 
drawing-room  table. 

Pollie,  still  holding  ISIr.  Addison,  came 
down  the  steps  slowly  at  Harry's  call.  Her 
straightforward  mind  could  not  see  any  rea- 
son why  she  should  not  read  the  Spectator  be- 
cause it  bored  Harry.  But  remembering  the 
softness  and  the  meekness  which  were  the 
ideal  wifely  virtues,  she,  with  an  effort,  did 
not  say  so. 

The  very  next  daj^  she  herself  readjusted, 
as  it  were,  the  intellectual  balance  between 


HARRY'S  WIFE  33 

the  sexes  by  driving  the  lady's  phaeton — 
Harry  had  given  it  to  her,  and  was  teaching 
her  to  handle  the  ribbons — into  a  ditch,  and 
by  inquiring  at  dinner,  with  that  perfectly 
cheerful  candour  which  always  distinguished 
her,  if  Lord  INlelbourne  were  a  Whig  or  a 
Tory. 

Still,  when  Harry  was  about  again,  Pollie 
often  found  her  waj'^  to  the  old  book-cases, 
and  sitting  on  those  steps,  with  her  small 
white-stockinged,  sandalled  feet  dangling,  dis- 
covered, to  her  great  good  fortune,  that  Jane 
Porter  and  "  The  Songs  of  the  Affections  " 
did  not  form  the  sum  total  of  English  litera- 
ture. 

One  brilliant  morning  of  early  September, 
the  post-bag,  ^arriving  at  breakfast,  was  found 
to  contain  a  solid  and  lengthy  communica- 
tion from  Harry's  lawyer  at  Dilchester  about 
a  property  to  which  Harry  was  a  trustee. 
He  threw  the  letter  over  to  Pollie,  not  be- 
cause he  supposed  she  understood  business, 
but  because  he  was  just  going  out  to  a  neigh- 
bour for  a  day's  partridge-shooting,  and  did 
not  want  to  bother  about  it  himself.  Pollie 
read  it  while  Harry  was  putting  on  his  shoot- 
ing boots  and  playing  with  the  dogs. 

"  JNIr.  Ilastrick  wants  to  see  you  at  once — 


34  BASSET 

to-da}^  Harry,"  she  said.  "  He  says  the  busi- 
ness is  very  important,  and  '  if  not  attended 
to,'  "  reads  PolHe  from  the  letter,  "  '  might 
result  in  a  verj^  serious  loss.'  " 

"Fudge!"  says  Harry,  pulling  on  the 
second  boot.  "  Old  Rastrick's  always  fussing 
about  something." 

"  It  does  seem  serious,  Harry,"  answers 
Pollie,  still  reading  the  letter;  "  he  says  again 
it  is  most  expedient  he  should  see  you  to-day." 

"  Then  he  won't,"  rej^lies  Harry,  \\ath  his 
jolly  laugh.  "  Here,  throw  it  over  to  me, 
Pollie,  and  don't  frown  like  that.  Women 
never  ought  to  interfere  in  business."  With 
that,  Harry,  having  impatientl}^  read  the 
paper  himself,  threw  it  into  a  drawer  in  his 
writing-table,  and,  whistling  cheerfully,  went 
out  to  the  hall-door  to  see  if  Victoria  had 
been  brought  round. 

The  sun  was  streaming  pleasantly  into  the 
dining-room,  but  for  the  moment  the  world 
did  not  look  gay  to  Pollie.  "  As  this  may  be 
a  serious  matter,  not  for  j^ou  and  your  wife 
only,  but  for  your  children  hereafter,"  ^Ir. 
Rastrick  had  written — and  Harry  did  not  find 
it  worth  the  sacrifice  of  a  day's  pleasure! 

Poilie's  eyes  were  still  thoughtful  when  she 
came  out  to  the  door  to  see  him  off.     He 


HARRY'S  WIFE  35 

looked  so  hearty  and  vigorous,  as  he  flung 
himself  into  the  saddle,  so  full  of  youth  and 
hfe,  it  was  inspiriting  to  see  him.  Just  as  he 
was  starting,  he  turned  to  Pollie,  to  hope  good- 
naturedly  she  would  not  be  dull,  and  to  sug- 
gest that  if  she  were,  she  should  ask  old  Pil 
(thus  Harry  abbreviated  the  representative  of 
the  house  of  Pilkington)  to  spend  the  after- 
noon with  her. 

About  a  week  later,  there  came  another 
solemn  communication  from  Mr.  Rastrick,  ex- 
pressing surprise  that  he  had  heard  nothing 
from  his  client  on  the  important  business  of 
which  he  had  written  to  him,  but  adding  that 
the  matter  had  turned  out  less  serious  than 
he  had  anticipated,  and,  he  believed,  would 
be  settled  satisfactorily. 

"  I  told  you  so!  "  says  Harry,  pulling  one 
of  Pollie's  little  curls — in  her  case,  they  were 
her  own,  growing  on  her  head — and  Pollie 
found  herself  in  the  rather  annoying,  but  not 
uncommon,  position  of  being  forgiven — for 
having  been  perfectly  right. 

That  day  seemed  to  her  to  mark  an  era. 
Certainly,  after  it,  Harry's  faults  often  came 
up  before  the  bar  of  her  righteous  young  judg- 
ment, and  received  scant  mercy  there;  and 
she  forgot  that  in  the  days  when  Harry  used 


36  '  BASSET 

to  ride  from  Basset  to  Clayton  Hall  to  woo 
her,  it  was  his  very  insouciance  and  sanguine- 
ness  which  used  to  make  her  home  seem  dull 
and  everybody  in  it  so  old  when  he  had  gone 
away. 

Sometimes  now,  they  even  had  small  dis- 
putes— over  some  household  matter  at  break- 
fast-time, perhaps.  Pollie  began  her  house- 
keeping— with  the  keys  and  the  pinafore — 
sore  and  troubled.  When,  with  very  great 
difficulty  and  in  a  few  hours'  time,  she  had 
brought  her  high  spirit  to  apology  and  con- 
trition, she  was  met  with  the  blank  wall  of 
the  fact  that  Harry  had  totally  and  utterly 
forgotten,  not  only  the  nature  of  the  offence, 
but  that  there  had  been  one  at  all. 

But  sometimes  there  were  graver  things — ■ 
"  on  n'a  qu'a  glisser  pour  faire  mal."  Harry's 
lazy  good-nature  occasionall}'  led  him  into 
small  j)redicaments,  from  which  the  easiest 
way  out  was  a  by-path  from  the  truth.  The 
wondering  honesty  of  Pollie's  eyes  was  quite 
lost  on  him.  One  day,  alas!  she  tried  a  small 
shaft  of  contempt,  and  it  glanced  off  him 
easily,  doing  neither  harm  nor  good.  As  for 
detecting  that  everything  was  not  perfectly 
right,  if  Harry  did  detect  it,  being  an  en- 
tirely practical  person,  he  would  simply  have 


HARRY'S  WIFE  37 

said  that  of  course  no  one  could  go  on 
honeymooning  for  ever. 

Certainly,  if  troubles  there  were,  Pollie 
had  the  best  of  remedies  for  them — plenty  to 
do.  Because  one's  heart  aches,  is  no  reason 
the  plums  should  not  be  made  into  jam;  and 
whether  one  is  happy  or  unhappy,  the  house- 
linen  will  not  count  and  mend  itself. 

In  the  evenings,  after  dinner,  Harry  used 
to  have  his  wine  brought  into  the  red-satin 
drawing-room,  and  enjoyed  it,  sitting  before 
the  fire,  while  Pollie  sang  to  him.  She  used 
to  sing  nearly  every  evening,  her  repertoire 
being  quite  limited — 

"  I'd  be  a  butterfly !  living  a  rover, 
Dying  when  fair  things  are  fading  away;" 

and  a  very  long  ballad,  describing  minutely 
the  five  inadequate  reasons  why  the  hero 
Never  Said  He  Loved,  until  verse  six,  when, 
with  several  passionately  tremulous  chords,  he 
at  last  expressed  his  feelings. 

Bj^  this  climax,  despite  the  chords,  Harry 
was  generally  asleep.  PolHe,  with  her  hands 
resting  on  the  keyboard,  could  see  him  from 
where  she  sat:  with  his  goodly,  fair  head 
thrown  back  on  the  chair,  and  self-indulgence 


38  BASSET 

marking — it  had  not  yet  marked — its  obvious 
lines  on  his  boyish  face.  Dim — Tim  was 
asleep  like  his  master — would  rise  slowly 
sometimes  from  the  hearthrug,  and  come  to 
Pollie  to  inquire  if  this  was  by  any  chance  a 
trouble  a  lick  could  heal. 

Then  tea  was  brought  in,  at  half-past  eight, 
and  when  Pollie  had  brewed  it,  taking  a  great 
deal  of  interest  in  the  process,  it  was  her 
custom  to  sit  on  one  of  those  beaded  foot- 
stools bj^  Harry's  side,  and  drink  her  cup  with 
her  head  resting  against  his  knee. 

At  first,  she  had  been  used  to  talk  to  him 
about  the  things  which  had  been  in  her  mind 
in  the  day,  or  her  new  naif  ex^jcriences  of 
life.  While  on  all  material  questions  Harry 
was  perfectly  shrewd  and  sensible,  the  world 
of  abstract  ideas  had  absolutely  no  existence 
for  him — though,  after  all,  it  was  not  ideas 
which  Pollie's  developing  heart  missed,  but 
ideals.  She  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  looking 
into  the  red  hollows  of  the  fire,  and  seeing 
there,  perhaps,  Harry's  shortcomings  and  not 
her  own.  She  had  been  too  fond  of  him  to 
be  merciful  to  them. 

Some  chance  remark  he  made  about  hap- 
pening to  have  met  her  that  night  of  the  Dil- 
chester  ball,  seemed  to  sav  that  if  he  had  not 


HARRY'S  WIFE  39 

met  her,  he  would  have  met  some  one  else, 
who  would  have  done  as  well.  Harry,  to  be 
sure,  had  not  meant  that,  or  meant  anything. 
He  rested  the  Globe  which  he  was  reading  on 
Pollie's  head;  and  under  that  canopy  her 
pretty  face  took  a  strange  sadness,  and  she 
began  to  think — a  dangerous  thought— how 
much  she  would  have  kept  if,  when  they  were 
still  only  lovers,  Harry  had  been  taken  away 
from  her;  for  she  guessed  already  that,  beside 
the  loss  of  illusion,  the  losses  of  death  might 
be  kind. 

Harry's  laugh  roused  her  with  a  start;  he 
read  aloud  something  out  of  the  paper — one 
of  those  cheerfully  blatant  sarcasms  in  which 
the  press  of  that  day  indulged. 

Presently,  Pollie  got  up  to  snuff  the  can- 
dles, shaking  herself  morally  the  while.  What 
a  fool  she  was!  what  a  wicked  fool!  Soft, 
persuasive,  amiable — how  short  she  fell  of 
that  accepted,  wifely  standard!  Yet,  the 
very  next  morning,  when  she  did  try  the  art 
of  coaxing  to  make  Harry  sit  down  and  pay 
his  bills,  or  keej)  some  long-neglected  prom- 
ise, she  found,  as  she  was  always  finding,  that 
though  he  seemed  to  yield  to  her  at  the  time, 
he  did  nothing,  and  next  day  they  were  back 
at  exactly  the  same  place  again — the  finger 


40  BASSET 

removed,  the  indiarubber  ball  resumed  its 
original  and  incurable  shape. 

In  the  very  few  novels  Pollie  had  been 
permitted  to  read,  when  the  heroine  was  not 
discreetly  left  at  the  church  door,  her  chil- 
dren settled  and  simplified  for  her  all  the 
difficulties  of  life. 

When,  in  that  winter,  her  small,  stalwart 
son  was  born,  with  Harry's  English  blue  eyes 
and  fair  hair,  and  a  distinct  likeness  in  his 
crumpled  red  face  to  Harry's  out-of-door 
complexion,  she  made  quite  sure  this  con- 
venient rule  was  going  to  apply  to  her. 

Harry  was  certainly  the  proudest  and  most 
affectionate  of  fathers,  and  took  an  even 
greater  interest  in  the  surprising  girth  of 
Tommy's  legs  than  did  that  comfortable,  ig- 
norant, motherlj^  old  woman  who  was  Pollie 
and  Tommy's  nurse.  No  father  ever  dug 
an  infant  in  the  ribs  with  more  hilarious 
results  than  Harry.  The  heir  nearly  gur- 
gled and  laughed  himself  into  a  fit  when 
Harry  gently  winked  his  cheerful  eye  at  him, 
or  softly  touched  him — Tommy  rolling  at  his 
ease  on  the  hearth-rug — with  the  toe  of  a 
shooting  boot.  Presently,  he  preferred  the 
sight  of  his  father's  jolly  face  even  to  the 
delicious  amusement  of  pulling  his  mother's 


HARRY'S  WIFE  41 

curls  as  if  they  were  a  bell-rope.  Harry 
talked  loudly  of  his  son's  perfections  when  he 
met  the  other  squires  in  the  field,  and  they 
laughed  at  him,  and  liked  him  better  for  his 
naif  delight  in  his  new  toy. 

A  toy — a  really  valuable  toy,  but  for  whose 
preservation  he  was  not  in  the  least  respon- 
sible— that  is  what  Pollie,  sitting  with  the 
child  on  her  lap,  and  looking  over  his  downy 
light  head  into  the  fire,  very  soon  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  Harry  regarded  their 
son. 

Of  course,  it  was  only  natural  and  manlike 
that  when  Tommy  became  fractious  or  boring, 
Harry  should  precipitately  resign  him  to  his 
mother,  and  that  when,  on  the  mere  suspicion 
of  a  cry  upstairs  of  an  evening,  she  fled  in  its 
direction  as  if  she  had  been  shot  out  of  a 
cannon,  Harry  should  observe  lazily  that  he 
was  certain  she  need  not  bother,  it  was  sure 
to  be  all  right;  which,  of  course,  it  always 
was.  It  was  natural,  too,  that  Pollie  and  not 
Harry  should  be  anxious  over  passing  infantile 
comj^laints — in  this  day  scientifically  assigned 
to  flies  in  the  milk,  and  in  that  to  the  direct 
Hand  of  God.  But  was  it  natural,  Pollie 
asked  herself,  that  when,  in  that  hour  after 
dinner,  as  they  sat  talking  over  their  tea,  she 


42  BASSET 

tentatively  spoke  of  Tommy's  education  and 
future,  Harry  should  obviously  regard  the 
subject  as  a  dull  one,  which  did  not  in  any 
way  concern  him,  and  remarked  indolently 
that  of  course  Tommy  would  get  along  some- 
how? That  was  just,  in  fact,  what  that  reso- 
lute little  mother  of  his  did  not  mean  him  to 
do.  She  meant  to  put  forth  her  very  best 
efforts  to  help  him  to  get  along  well. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  usual  attitude  at 
that  hour,  with  her  head  against  Harr^^'s  knee, 
and  for  the  first  time  was  conscious  that  she 
disliked  the  touch  of  his  fingers  on  the  soft- 
ness of  her  cheek  and  neck.  Harry-like,  he 
did  not  even  observe  that  she  shrank  from 
him,  and,  ^^hen  the  next  night  she  took  a 
chair  opposite  him  instead  of  her  footstool,  to 
which  she  returned  no  more,  noticed  no  change 
at  all. 

The  child,  indeed,  whom  she  had  made  so 
ignorantly  certain  was  to  draw  her  to  Harry, 
more  deeply  divided  them.  PoUie,  whose  vive 
nature  had  been  angry,  but  angry  only,  at 
Harry's  casual  affection  and  indifference  for 
herself,  felt  passionate  resentment  that  he 
should  mete  the  same  feelings  to  the  child. 
She  turned  away  her  head  now  even  when 
the  pair  were  at  play,  as  if  something  in  the 


HARRY'S  WIFE  43 

sight  hurt  her.  When,  one  night,  she  did 
bring  Harry  to  speculate — half  jocularly — 
on  Tommy's  future,  it  was  but  to  know,  what 
she  had  so  far  only  suspected,  that  she  and 
Harr}^  had  not  an  idea  in  common,  and  that, 
if  Tommy's  upbringing  was  not  to  be  wholly 
harmful,  she  must  be  always  counteracting 
Harry's  influence.  In  a  minute  his  head  was 
behind  the  Globe  again,  and  he  was  whistling 
softly  as  he  read.  On  to  Pollie's  little  bare 
hand  with  the  wedding-ring  on  it  there 
splashed,  to  her  surprise  and  resentment,  a 
sudden  tear. 

It  being  the  shooting  season,  Harry,  of 
course,  was  constantly  out. 

As  women  then  never  followed  the  guns, 
and  as  they  walked  little  and  played  no  out- 
door games,  for  open-air  exercises  only  rid- 
ing and  driving  remained,  and  though  Pollie 
was  learning,  she  had  not  yet  learnt  those 
arts.  So  she  had  only  the  occupations  of  in- 
doors— where  the  small  troubles  of  life  always 
loom  large.  Harry's  idiosyncrasies,  which 
had  annoyed  her  at  breakfast,  came  up,  un- 
forbidden, before  her  mind  in  the  long,  soli- 
tary hours. 

Yesterday,  she  had  lit  again,  by  chance, 
on  one  of  his  lazy  lies,  and  knew  that  he  was 


44  BASSET 

neither  troubled  at  it  nor  at  being  found  out 
in  it. 

To-day — sitting  in  the  nursery  sewing 
clothes  for  Tommy,  and  looking  above  his 
sleeping  head  at  the  dripping  window-pane, 
where  "  rain  and  wind  beat  dark  December  " 
■ — it  seemed  to  her  that  since  her  marriage  she 
had  been  always  accepting  lowered  standards, 
or  quarrelling  with  Harrj%  in  itself  a  lowering 
thing,  for  the  better  ones  she  knew.  A  revolt 
against  him  and  against  fate,  a  sudden,  strong 
tempest  of  hatred,  took  possession  of  her. 
She  took  Tommy  from  her  lap  into  her  arms, 
and  held  him  so  tightly  to  her  heart — in  a 
fierce  determination  he  should  have  neither 
lot  nor  part  with  his  father — that  Tommy 
woke  up,  screamed  indignation  at  such  treat- 
ment, and  old  INIrs.  Chinnery  came  in  from 
the  next  room  to  see  if  her  charge  were  being 
murdered. 

All  that  week  Pollie  was  very  silent.  But 
Harry,  who  always  volubly  filled  in  all  pauses 
himself,  noticed  notliing. 

At  church,  on  the  Sunday,  the  sermon 
chanced  to  be  on  the  Forgiveness  of  Injuries, 
and  Harry,  who  had  never  borne  any  living 
soul  a  grudge  for  more  than  five  minutes, 
listened   moved   and   attentive,   while   Poilie, 


HARRY'S  WIFE  45 

staring  absently  under  her  bonnet  at  old 
JNIrs.  Latimer's  monument,  did  not  hear  a 
word  from  beginning  to  end. 

At  the  five  o'clock  Sunday  dinner  she 
hardly  roused  herself  to  make  the  ordinary 
observations,  or  to  answer  Harry's.  She 
was  dreaming  deeply — not  without  a  gloomy 
pleasure  in  her  own  vindictive  imaginings — 
of  a  Harry,  ill  or  troubled,  whom  she  would 
by  no  means  succour  or  solace.  She  looked 
at  his  good-natured  face  across  the  dishes  of 
wintry  pears  and  grapes — he  was  enjoying  his 
Sunday  claret  (the  best  bin)  in  perfect  con- 
tentment— and  believed  that  she  hated  him. 
From  force  of  habit,  through  all  her  distress 
and  bitterness,  she  kept  on  absently  anointing 
the  joint  in  front  of  her  with  the  gravy — to 
keep  the  goodness  in  it — and  no  wretchedness 
of  spirit  could  prevent  her  from  mentally 
noting  presently  that  Mrs.  Jones  had  insuffi- 
ciently browned  the  pudding. 

In  the  drawing-room,  she  and  Harry  both 
produced  books  suitable  for  the  day.  Every- 
body then  read,  or  pretended  to  read,  ser- 
mons on  Sunday,  and  if  Harry's  chosen  dis- 
course on  the  Plagues  of  Egypt  fell  off  his 
knee  before  he  had  reached  the  end  of  the 
first  paragrax^h,  and  his  head  dropped  back 


46  BASSET 

in  the  chair  with  his  mouth  open,  the  general 
opinion  would  certainly  have  been  that  he 
did  much  better  to  sleep  over  a  pious  work 
than  to  keep  awake  over  a  secular. 

Pollie's  sermon  on  Sodom  and  Gomorrah 
lay  unnoticed  on  her  knee,  and  she  gazed 
past  Harry's  sleeping  form,  with  her  pretty 
eyes  blank  and  sad,  into  the  future.  If  only 
there  were  a  future  for  her!  If  only  she  had 
know^n — in  time — what  life  and  love  and  mar- 
riage meant! 

The  regular  breathing  of  Dim  and  Tim,  as 
they  lay  stretched  in  their  after-dinner  sleep 
on  the  hearth-rug,  made  a  monotonous  ac- 
companiment to  her  thoughts.  She  was 
so  profoundly  absorbed  in  them  that  even 
a  cry  in  the  nursery  overhead  passed  un- 
heard. 

Five  minutes  later  there  was  the  report  of 
a  gun — apparently  quite  close  to  the  windows 
— which  brought  the  four  occupants  of  the 
draW'ing-room  to  their  feet  in  a  second.  In 
a  dozen  more,  Harry  had  his  gun,  and  w^as 
ready  to  go  in  quest  of  the  poacher,  with  his 
blue  eyes  eager  and  alert,  agog  for  a  fray,  and 
bidding  Pollie  hold  back  Dim  and  Tim.  She 
called  out  to  him  from  the  hearth-rug,  where 
she  had  each  dog  by  his  collar,  in  a  phrase  she 


HARRY'S  WIFE  47 

had  used  a  hundred  times  before,  "  Take  care 
of  yourself,  Harry!  " 

When  she  could  hear  his  footsteps  no 
more,  and  the  dogs  were  quieter — only  mur- 
muring excitement  and  disappointment  occa- 
sionally, as  she  sat  between  them  on  the  floor 
— the  phrase  came  back  to  her  mind. 

If  he  did  take  care  of  himself,  there  were 
twenty,  thirty,  forty  years  she  must  spend  at 
his  side,  the  spirit  always  subdued  to  the 
flesh,  herself  slipping  into  his  likeness,  and — 
far  worse — seeing  Tommy  slip  into  it  too. 
If  he  never  came  back,  she  would  be  free  to 
lead  her  own  life,  with  the  child — to  find, 
perhaps,  the  hapj)iness  she  had  missed!  She 
began  to  see  what  she  had  missed.  In  books, 
poachers  shot  tyrannical  landowners.  Even 
Pollie — in  her  absorbed  bitterness — had  to 
smile  at  the  thought  of  the  much  too  easy- 
going Harry  as  a  tyrant.  But  it  was  only  in 
books!  Because  she  knew  such  a  catastrophe 
was  so  exceedingly  unlikely  to  happen,  she 
believed  that  she  actually  wished  it  to-night. 
And  suddenly,  with  a  guilty  start,  she  became 
aware  of  Dim,  sitting  up  with  his  ridiculous 
head  exceedingly  on  one  side,  contemplating 
her  gravely,  as  if  he  knew  what  was  in  her 
mind. 


48  BASSET 

On  the  morrow,  Harry  did  not  get  up. 
He  felt  ill — a  chill,  j^erhaps,  from  chasing  the 
poacher.  He  grumbled  a  good  deal  and  made 
great  havoc  of  his  bed-clothes.  Pollie  went 
down  to  her  store-room  and  looked  out  the 
three  household  remedies  which  her  mother  had 
assured  her  the  prudent  housewife  had  always 
at  hand — arnica,  colcliicum  for  the  gout,  and 
sal  volatile.  As  the  arnica  announced  itself 
on  the  bottle  to  be  intended  for  bruises  and 
outward  application,  and  Harry  had  no 
bruises,  it  was  manifestly  unsuitable.  So 
Pollie  tried  the  colchicum — gout  takes  all 
forms,  and  Harry  might  be  suffering  from 
one  of  them;  and  then,  in  case  it  was  not  the 
gout  after  all,  the  sal  volatile. 

Hany  said  he  felt  worse  when  he  had 
imbibed  these  remedies,  and  rather  crossly 
suggested — everj^body  believed  piously  and 
faithfully  in  the  curative  properties  of  medi- 
cine then — that  they  were  stale.  Pollie  shook 
her  head  and  curls,  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  regarding  Harry  attentively.  He  did  not 
look  ill;  the  outdoor  tan  on  his  face  had  not 
faded  at  all.  Her  own  experience  of  sickness 
was  limited  to  an  attack  of  measles  at  twelve 
years  old;  she  tried  to  remember  what  she 
had  felt  like  on  that  important  occasion,  and 


HARRY'S  WIFE  49 

could  not.  She  brought  Harry  some  soup 
and  wine  and  the  newspaper,  and  resumed  her 
household  duties. 

When  she  came  up  to  him  a  little  later, 
he  was  still  tossing  untidily  and  unhappily, 
and  declared  himself  to  be  in  considerable 
pain.  Pollie  suggested  she  should  send  John 
for  Dr.  Benet.  Her  ignorance  was  in  no  way 
alarmed.  To  it,  death  was  still  a  name,  not 
a  reality;  a  thing  which  had  removed  King 
William  IV.  and  sometimes  an  old  uncle  or 
a  cousin — her  father  had  died  in  her  infancy — 
but  had  never  come  so  near  to  her  that  she 
had  learnt  either  to  dread  or  to  recognize  it. 

Plarry  was  not  sure  whether  he  would 
see  old  Benet,  or  whether  he  would  not. 
Doctors  were  such  asses!  Harry,  in  point 
of  fact,  had  several  shooting  engagements 
that  week,  and  had  not  quite  decided  whether 
old  Benet  would  cure  him  in  time  for  them, 
or  maliciously  prevent  him  from  fulfilling 
them. 

He  dozed  restlessly  in  the  afternoon.  It 
was  six  o'clock  before  John  left  the  Manor, 
and  nearly  eight  before  Dr.  Benet  reached 
it.  He  wheezed  asthmatically  up  the  stairs 
alone — he  was  very  fat  and  short.  Harry 
had  been   annoyed   with   Pollie   for  standing 


50  BASSET 

at  the  end  of  his  four-poster,  looking  at  him 
and  inquiring  if  he  were  better,  and  had 
bidden  her  to  go  downstairs.  Dr.  Benet  was 
overhead  a  long  while,  creaking  about  noisily, 
doing  a  good  deal,  it  seemed  to  Pollie  listen- 
ing below,  but  not  talking  much.  When  at 
last  he  came  heavily  downstairs  again,  Pollie, 
with  her  work  still  in  her  hand,  went  to  the 
drawing-room  door  to  meet  him,  asked  cheer- 
fully how  Harry  was,  and  if  he  would  be  out 
of  bed  to-morrow. 

There  was  a  look  on  old  Benet's  homely 
face  that  seemed  to  her  to  make  her  heart 
give  a  sudden  leap  and  then  stand  still.  But 
self-control  had  been  part  of  her  training,  and 
it  did  not  fail  her.  The  wool-work  dropped 
out  of  her  hands,  but  she  stooped,  picked 
it  up,  folded  it,  and  laid  it  by  on  a 
table,  before  she  shut  the  door  and  came 
back  to  the  hearth  where  the  doctor  was 
standing. 

He  must  not  disguise  from  her  that  this 
was  a  very  serious  thing,  and  that  he  did 
not  like  the  look  of  the  patient  at  all.  Every 
one,  to  his  misfortune,  knows  those  time- 
honoured  formulas,  the  same  seventy,  or 
seven  hundred,  years  ago.  Dr.  Benet  wrote 
a  note  to  a  colleague  in  Dilchester — a  note 


HARRY'S  WIFE  51 

summoning  liim  to  come  at  once — which  John 
must  ride  hard  and  dehver.  He  gave  Polhe 
some  directions.  She  was  intelHgent;  that  he 
had  always  guessed  from  her  face.  He  took 
hold  of  her  sHm  hand,  hanging  at  her  side — 
it  was  as  cold  as  a  stone — and  patted  it 
kindly  between  his  own  fat,  red,  old  paws,  and 
said  there  was  no  need  to  lose  hope,  Harry 
had  the  finest  of  constitutions.  As  he  rode 
away  from  the  Manor,  he  recalled  something 
in  her  expression,  and  wondered  that  the 
Squire,  who  was  handsome  enough  certainly 
to  please  any  woman's  fancy,  was  quite  the 
man  to  have  inspired  so  profound  and  pas- 
sionate a  feeling. 

When  he  had  gone,  Pollie  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment by  the  hall-door,  which  she  had  opened, 
thinking. 

Les  desirs  accomplis!  Out  of  her  exceed- 
ingly limited  acquaintance  with  the  French 
language  that  little  phrase  came  back  to  her, 
followed  her  upstairs  to  Harry's  room,  and 
drummed  in  her  ears  above  the  high-sounding 
phrases  in  which  Dr.  Clarke  from  Dilchester, 
presently  retrieved  by  John,  tried  to  hide  his 
ignorance  and  his  anxiety. 

Les  desirs  accomplis!  The  words  still 
throbbed  in  her  mind  as  she  sat  the  remainder 


52  BASSET 

of  the  night  in  Plarrv's  room.  Gamps  were 
the  only  sick  nurses  of  that  date,  and,  natu- 
rally, households  like  Pollie's  would  have  none 
of  them.  She  had  wished  Harry  dead;  and  he 
was  dying.  By  the  light  of  tlie  candle  and 
her  o\\'n  accusing  soul,  he  looked  far  more  ill 
and  sunken  than  he  really  was.  She  w^ould 
have  her  wish,  as  a  judgment:  This  you  de- 
sired; take  it — to  your  lifelong  regret. 

AVhen  "  the  still  morn  went  out  with  san- 
dals grey,"  and  Pollie  peeped  again  through 
Harrj^'s  bed-curtains,  he  was  asleep;  and  so 
sound  asleejD,  for  one  dreadful  moment  she 
thought  her  punishment  had  come. 

Dr.  Benet,  arriving  an  hour  or  two  later, 
considered  his  patient  a  something,  though 
but  a  trifle,  better. 

But  there  were  still  many  days  of  gnawing 
anxiety — or  alternations  of  hope  and  fear  not 
less  cruel — when  Pollie  believed  her  desire 
had  been  heard  in  Heaven,  bj^  the  just  and 
avenging  God  of  the  Old  Testament  lessons 
of  her  childhood.  She  had  wliat  is  called 
no  time  to  think,  but  she  had  time  and  to 
spare  to  find  out  that  the  burden  refused  can 
weigh  heavier  than  the  burden  borne;  and 
that  though,  in  her  marriage,  she  had  made 
one  of  the  most  fatal  of  human  mistakes,  there 


HARRY'S  WIFE  53 

was  one  greater  and  more  fatal — rebellion 
against  its  consequences. 

The  beautiful  quiver  of  the  most  nourish- 
ing of  all  possible  calf's-foot  jelly,  which 
she  had  made  with  her  own  eager  hands, 
and  the  perfect  greaselessness  and  potency  of 
the  beef-tea,  expressed  her  repentance.  She 
would  most  thankfully  have  gone  down  on 
her  knees  and  scrubbed  the  floor  of  Harry's 
bedroom,  if  the  medical  science  of  her  age 
had  demanded  such  hygienic  precautions — 
which  it  certainly  did  not.  As  it  was,  she 
satisfied  its  requirements,  and  a  little  com- 
forted her  self-accusing  soul,  by  piling  up 
the  patient's  fire,  and  excluding  oxygen  from 
his  room  with  so  much  fervour  and  thorough- 
ness that  only  that  natural  excellence  of  con- 
stitution, on  which  old  Benet  was  pinning  his 
faith,  could  have  made  him  weather  her  devo- 
tion. In  the  cold  dawn  of  many  mornings, 
Harry  saw  her  httle  figure,  in  the  simplest 
and  neatest  of  wrappers,  and  with  her  curls 
appearing  below  a  small,  frilled  nightcap, 
standing  inside  his  bed-curtains,  bringing  him 
cups  of  nourishment. 

When,  after  many  days,  he  began  to  be 
annoyed  with  her  for  always  remembering  to 
give    him    his    medicines — they     were    most 


54  BASSET 

numerous  and  nauseous — a  weight  seemed  to 
be  lifted  from  her  heart.  He  had  been  so 
ominously  meek  and  grateful ! 

No  good  woman  ever  thanked  Providence 
so  fervently  to  hear  a  little  bad  language  as 
Pollie,  when  Harry  showed  his  renewed 
vigour  b}^  energetically  damning  all  drugs  and 
the  entire  medical  profession.  He  asked  for 
Tim,  and  Pollie's  housewifely  soul  made  no 
account  of  paw-marks  on  the  spotlessness 
of  the  counterpane;  and  for  Tommy,  and 
Pollie  was  not  even  hurt  when  he  was  quite 
disproportionately  annoyed  at  the  child  for 
crying  at  his  haggard,  changed  face.  In  her 
remorse — though  at  its  bitterest  she  knew 
very  well  that  she  loved  every  hair  wliich 
composed  the  down  on  Tommy's  head  (called 
curls  by  Pollie  and  Mrs.  Chinnery)  better 
than  Harry's  whole  body — she  hardly  allowed 
herself  to  see  the  child  at  all. 

Harrj^  recovered,  chieflj^  because  he  had 
always  been  firmly  convinced  that  it  was 
perfecth^  impossible  for  him  to  do  anything 
else.  He  came  downstairs  again,  not  at  all 
a  changed  man,  but  precisely  the  same  man 
he  had  gone  up;  and  Pollie,  not  substantially 
a  different  woman,  resumed  her  life  with  him. 

Only  now,  since  she  had  wished  him  dead 


HARRY'S  WIFE  55 

and  he  had  nearly  died,  the  sense  of  her  own 
failings  made  her  merciful  to  his.  Some- 
times, when  he  annoj^ed  or  wounded  her,  she 
would  go  into  the  drawing-room,  and,  looking 
up  at  his  mother's  picture,  tell  herself  that 
for  the  son  of  that  feebly  good-natured 
person,  with  her  pleasant,  watery  smile,  the 
allowances  should  indeed  be  great.  When 
he  offered  her  a  present — a  peace-offering — a 
wiser  Pollie  took  it,  though  there  were  more 
than  three  in  her  trousseau.  She  found  out 
gradually  that,  though  one  has  missed  the 
best,  good  may  yet  remain;  that  if  the  Harry 
she  had  been  in  love  with  was  lost  to  her, 
perhaps  had  never  existed,  there  still  lived 
beside  her  a  Harry  of  whom  she  was  really 
fond,  and  with  whom  her  duty  lay  for  all  her 
days. 

His  good-natured  camaraderie^  which  was 
offence  when  she  still  loved  him — or  thought 
she  did — she  accepted  as  her  greatest  bless- 
ing, and  was  thankful  that  he  gave  her  a 
kind,  careless  affection,  and  exacted  no  more. 

She  learnt  in  time  to  be  "  soople  in  things 
immaterial";  and  when  she  knew  her  anger 
was  just,  remembered,  or  tried  to  remember, 
that  "  in  the  course  of  justice  none  of  us 
should  see  salvation." 


SG  BASSET 

Patience  to  endure  was  the  besetting 
virtue  of  that  age,  as  imj)atience  to  reform 
is  the  besetting  virtue  of  this;  and  Polhe 
^^•as  the  child  of  her  time.  Her  pride — the 
pride  which  not  only  never  whines  under 
misfortune,  but  denies  that  there  is  any  mis- 
fortune to  whine  about — also  helped  her  not 
a   little. 

After  all,  too,  the  novels  were  not  wholly 
wrong.  How  was  it  possible  not  to  feel 
gently  to  Harry  when  Tommy  looked  up  to 
her  with  Harry's  eyes,  and  laid  on  hers  a  fat 
hand,  stubby  and  strong  and  short — Harry's 
in  miniature?  But,  if  his  face  was  his 
father's,  in  his  nature  he  had  his  mother's 
deeper  and  livelier  feelings,  quicker  temper, 
and  honest  heart. 

It  was  her  care,  of  course — and  her  happi- 
ness, too — to  plan,  to  think,  to  look  ahead  for 
the  son,  while  the  father  was  breaking  in  for 
him  the  cleverest  little  pony  in  the  world;  to 
persuade  Harry  to  see  ]Mr.  Rastrick  on  mat- 
ters which  would  affect  Tommy  hereafter,  in- 
stead of  aiming  IMr.  Rastrick's  communica- 
tions, made  into  suitable  pellets,  at  Tommy 
tumbling  on  the  floor  with  Dim  and  Tim, 
his  inseiDarable  allies. 

The  problem — that  hard  problem — to  make 


HARRY'S  WIFE  57 

Tommy  respect  a  father  who  was  eminently, 
but  only,  likeable;  to  obey  him,  but  not  to 
follow  in  his  waj'S — she  tackled  with  sense 
and  spirit,  and  some  measure  of  success. 
And  so  made  her  compromise  with  Fate. 

At  her  side,  of  course.  Tommy  learnt 
C  A  T — cat,  and  D  O  G— dog,  and,  from  that 
extraordinary  Early- Victorian  compendium, 
"  Infantine  Knowledge,"  responded  to  such 
dissimilar  questions  (in  this  strange  rotation) 
as  "Who  made  j^ou?"  "What  is  sago?" 
"Where  is  New  York?" 

Presently,  Pollie  went  into  the  library, 
found  Harry's  old  Latin  grammar,  and,  with 
her  curls  rather  flurried,  and  her  cheeks  rather 
flushed,  learnt  mensa,  "  a  table,"  and  amo, 
"  I  love,"  to  be  in  time  to  help  Tommy  out  of 
that  pitfall  concerning  hostages  and  the  gate 
of  a  city,  into  which  she  knew  he  must 
eventually  be  led.  She  used  to  hide  the  Latin 
grammar  hastily  under  the  sofa  cushion  when 
she  heard  Harry's  footstep  approaching;  he 
was  so  certain  to  say  that  women  had  no 
business  with  Latin,  and  could  not  possibly 
understand  it! 

Only  now,  she  took  care  to  remind  herself 
that,  after  all,  he  was  by  no  means  the  only 
man  of  his  day  who  believed  that  "  if  you  once 


58  BASSET 

suffer  women  to  eat  of  the  tree  of  knowledge, 
the  rest  of  the  family  will  soon  be  reduced 
to  the  same  aerial  and  unsatisfactory  diet." 

It  was  also  rather  under  the  rose,  and 
when  Harry  was  out,  that  Pollie  pursued  her 
own  reading,  practising  that  innocent  and 
comforting  deceit,  as  formerly,  sitting  on  the 
top  of  a  step-ladder,  with  a  sandalled  foot 
dangling,  and  the  curls  shadowing  an  ab- 
sorbed, bent  face. 

With  wonder  and  delight  she  delved  into 
that  gold-mine  of  inexhaustible  riches — the 
wisdom  and  genius  of  Shakespeare;  and, 
sometimes,  when  that  great  master  of  the 
human  heart  touched  with  his  sure  hand  some 
chord  in  her  own  experience,  or  opened  the 
door  of  a  new  world  of  passion  and  feeling 
into  which  she  might  only  look,  she  would  lift 
her  head,  catch  her  breath  in  a  sudden  sigh, 
and  feel  as  if  her  life  were  over. 

But,  indeed,  she  had  only  finished  Chap- 
ter II. 


CHAPTER  III 

PARSON    GRANT 

When  Harry  Latimer's  father  was  enjoying 
himself  at  Basset  Manor,  and  Miss  Pilking- 
ton's  father  was  dispensing  a  pleasant  and 
nnjustifiahle  hospitality  at  the  Rectory,  the 
only  son  of  a  well-born  country  gentleman — 
living  about  thirty  miles  from  Dilchester — 
went  up  to  Cambridge  University. 

Peter  Grant  was  at  this  time  an  immensely 
broad,  tall,  powerful  and  stupid  young  man, 
with  a  shock-head  of  reddish  hair,  a  solid 
aversion  to  book-learning,  and  an  equally 
solid  and  obstinate  aptitude  for  what  the 
slang  of  this  day  would  call  "  ragging."  It 
was  not  indeed  that  Peter  was  the  pioneer  of 
those  frolics  which  took  up  all  his  time  and 
energy  at  Alma  Mater,  but  he  was  always  in 
at  the  death.  If  the  proctors  caught  anybody, 
they  always  caught  him.  His  slow  tongue 
was  perfectly  inapt  at  excuses;  and  while 
luckier  undergraduates  scraped   into   Chapel 

S9 


6o  BASSET 

by  the  skin  of  their  teeth,  as  it  were,  honest 
Peter  was  invariably  just  too  late. 

He  reall}^  drank  less  than  his  companions — 
though  that  distinction  allowed  him  the  privi- 
lege of  drinking  a  good  deal — but  his  red  face 
and  the  lurid  light  shed  on  it  by  his  red 
thatch  of  hair  earned  him  the  reputation  of 
drinking  much  more.  He  was  a  great  man 
on  the  river,  and  a  terrifying  boxer.  His 
tutor  warned  him  and  expostulated  with  him 
in  the  first  week  of  his  first  term.  At  the  end 
of  his  fourth  term,  he  was  sent  down  to  an 
enraged  father,  who  announced  an  irrevocable 
intention  of  giving  Peter  a  small  farm,  hing 
between  Basset  and  Dilchester,  and  nothing 
else  of  any  sort  or  description,  and  turning 
him,  there  and  then,  into  a  gentleman- 
farmer. 

Peter  did  not  object  or  agree  to  this 
proposal.  But  the  next  day  he  quietly  walked 
out  of  the  house  with  a  few  guineas  in  his 
pocket,  took  the  stage  from  Dilchester  to 
London;  enlisted  in  the  Rifle  Brigade,  which 
was  shortly — in  the  spring  of  1809 — ordered 
to  Portugal  to  join  the  army,  then  fighting 
the  French  in  the  Peninsula,  under  Sir  Arthur 
Wellesley. 

For  three  years  he  served  his  country  as 


PARSON  GRANT  6i 

so  many  did  and  do,  honourably  and  without 
honours;  and  eventually  became  a  non-com- 
missioned officer.  His  herculean  frame  and 
constitution  weathered  the  cruelties  of  Gen- 
eral Craufurd's  forced  marches— the  priva- 
tions, the  sickness,  the  blunders  and  the  mis- 
management which  peculiarly  distinguished 
that  miserable  and  glorious  campaign. 

Finally,  he  joined  the  Forlorn  Hope  at 
the  storming  of  Rodrigo,  where  the  gallant 
Craufurd  was  killed;  and  again  volunteered 
for  the  Forlorn  Hope  at  the  awful  and  bloody 
storming  of  Badajoz  in  April,  1812. 

The  Peter  Grant  of  the  Rifle  Brigade  in 
the  Peninsular  War  was,  of  course,  precisely 
the  Peter  Grant  of  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge. He  had  no  more  the  wits  than  he  had 
opportunity  for  leadership,  and  not  the  wits 
to  make  the  opportunity.  But  he  had  the 
dogged  spirit  of  Highland  ancestors,  which 
turned  him,  on  the  defensive,  into  a  sohd, 
immovable  rock,  and  caused  him  to  be — 
now  in  a  literal  and  dreadful  sense — always 
in  at  the  death.  Now,  as  then,  he  led  the 
life  of  his  comrades;  and  a  brave  and  brutal 
life  it  was.  Only  somehow  Peter  kept,  what 
he  kept  for  ever,  a  certain  softness  in  his 
rough  heart,  and  fidelity  to  a  very  brief  creed : 


62  BASSET 

respect  a  good  woman,  and  never  tell  a  lie— 
unless  it  is  absolutely  necessary. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  besieging 
army  lay  outside  Badajoz  for  a  fortnight  in 
ceaseless  torrential  rains;  and  at  eight  o'clock 
in  the  evening  of  April  6,  1812,  began  to 
storm  the  city. 

Fortunately  for  history,  some  of  the  be- 
siegers lived  to  forget  the  horrors  of  what 
one  of  them  called  "  the  most  sanguinarj^  and 
awful  engagements  on  the  records  of  any 
country,"  so  far  that  they  could  hereafter 
speak  and  write  of  it.  But  of  that  storming 
in  the  darkness,  when  the  besieged,  not  less 
furious  and  resolute  than  the  besiegers,  flung 
down  the  breaches,  bags  and  barrels  of  gun- 
powder, live  shells,  hand  grenades  and  fire- 
balls; when  "  exploding  mines  cast  up  friends 
and  foes  together,"  and  the  booming  of  can- 
non and  the  shrieks,  curses  and  agonies  of  the 
wounded,  made  hell,  Peter  Grant's  lips,  at 
least,  could  never  be  brought  to  tell. 

He  was  one  of  the  first  inside  the  walls  of 
Badajoz. 

But  here  again  were  the  regions  of  the 
damned — and  a  worse  damnation.  The  city 
was  at  the  mercy  of  a  soldiery  desperate  from 
long  privations,  drunk  with  victory  and  wine, 


PARSON  GRANT  6^, 

who,  in  the  confusion,  fired  on  their  own 
comrades,  shot  the  women  and  children  in  the 
streets  "  for  pastime,"  and  committed  out- 
rages, murders,  debaucheries — every  vileness 
of  which  the  human  breast  is  capable,  and 
which,  except  in  broadest  outline,  no  pen  can 
describe. 

It  was  Peter's  fate  to  find  himself,  almost 
at  once,  in  a  great  house  where  some  drunken 
soldiers  had  crashed  in  the  door  and  were 
looting  and  killing  broadcast.  In  an  upper 
room,  Peter  discovered  the  master  of  the 
house,  an  elderly  Spaniard  already  wounded 
in  the  fray,  and  a  woman,  whom  Peter  sup- 
posed to  be  his  daughter.  Whether  it  was 
the  look  of  her  face — a  young  face  which 
horror  had  frozen  into  an  expression  of 
anguish  more  appealing  than  any  prayers  or 
entreaties — or  whether  he  simply  acted  on  in- 
stinct, Peter  could  never  tell;  but,  in  a  mo- 
ment, he  stood  single-handed  defending  this 
man  and  woman,  on  the  narrow  stairway 
which  led  to  the  room  where  they  had  refuged, 
against  his  comrades.  Peter,  with  his  ugly 
mop  of  red  hair,  his  redder  face,  and  with  a 
great  gash  in  the  cheek — Peter,  six  feet  high 
and  broad  to  match,  lunging  and  plunging 
with  his   sword,   was   no   doubt  a   sight  gro- 


64  BASSET 

tesque  enough.  But  it  was  so  fearsome  a  one 
that  it  saved  the  old  Spaniard  from  certain 
death,  and  the  girl  from  a  fate  far  worse. 
For  three  days,  with  searcelj^  a  moment's 
intermission,  he  held  his  post. 

On  April  10,  when  the  9th  Regiment  was 
marched  into  the  town,  plunder  and  debauch- 
ery ceased,  and  Badajoz  began  to  be  an 
orderly  British  garrison,  Peter  himself  suc- 
cumbed not  only  to  a  natural  exhaustion,  but 
to  a  violent  rheumatism,  brought  on  from  the 
wet  of  the  fortnight  before  the  walls  of  the 
city.  But  he  had  friends,  bound  b}^  no  com- 
mon ties.  The  Spaniard,  something  recov- 
ered of  his  wounds;  the  girl,  whom  Peter 
knew  now  to  be  his  wife,  desired  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  nurse  and  help  their  benefactor. 

Don  Luis  de  la  IMano,  aged  about  fifty, 
was  a  courteous,  honourable,  generous  and 
formal  personage — an  excellent  tj^^e  of  the 
Sj)anish  gentleman  of  his  day. 

Of  his  wife,  Peter  remembered,  as  he  lay 
painful  and  feverish,  a  tall,  slight  figure,  with 
a  dark  mantilla  shading  her  dusky  hair  and 
the  soft  pallor  of  her  face,  who  came  noise- 
lessty  in  and  out  of  his  sick-room;  and  pres- 
ently, being  devote  exceedingly,  found  among 
her  ruined  possessions  a  broken  crucifix,  which 


PARSON  GRANT  6s 

she  hung  on  the  wall  facing  his  bed.  She 
knew  a  httle  English,  and  he  as  little  Spanish. 
But,  fortunately,  neither  wished  to  talk. 
Peter's  eyes — the  wistful  eyes  of  some  faithful 
old  dog — followed  her  about  the  room.  After 
the  brutalities  and  miseries  of  the  campaign — 
after  the  hell  of  the  storming  and  sack — the 
mutilated  salon  where  he  lay  seemed  like 
heaven;  and  the  ministering  woman — perhaps 
any  woman  who  had  nursed  him  then  would 
have  seemed  so — an  angel.  When  he  was 
better — but  so  crippled  with  rheumatism  that 
his  soldiering  days  were  obviously  ended  and 
he  was  at  once  given  his  discharge — his  hosts 
insisted  on  taking  him  to  their  country  home, 
near  Ronda. 

By  the  time  they  reached  it — it  was  an  old 
Moorish  palace  greatly  out  of  repair — the 
lavish  Southern  spring  was  well  advanced. 
Peter  had  not  thought — if  he  had  thought 
about  it  at  all— that  natural  beauty  had  a 
voice  he  could  hear.  But  forty  years  after 
he  could  still  smell  the  aromatic  scents  of 
Southern  nights,  and  see  the  garden  with  the 
great  cool  shade  of  the  eucalyj)tus  tree,  the 
rich  tangle  of  flowers  growing  on  the  broken 
terraces,  the  dark  j^citio  with  the  lemon  and 
orange  trees  in  old  green  tubs,  and  the  white, 


66  BASSET 

hot  wall  of  the  house,  where  the  lizards  sunned 
themselves,  and  a  great  clump  of  bougain- 
villeas  hung  broken  by  its  own  weight. 

Beneath  the  eucalyptus,  Teresa  presently 
brought  an  ancient  Spanish-English  conversa- 
tion book,  pens,  paper,  and  an  old  jMoorish 
inkstand,  and  essayed  to  teach  her  guest  the 
Spanish  language. 

She  was  herself  a  verj^  young,  intense, 
devout,  ecstatic  W'Oman,  with  a  purity  never 
assailed  by  passion — profoundlj^  believing 
what  a  particularly  dubious  old  padre  had 
preached,  and  not  the  least  disturbed  by  what 
he  had  practised.  She  had  been  married  at 
sixteen,  and  she  was  faithfully  attached  to  her 
husband,  who  treated  her  as  a  daughter.  It 
never  entered  into  her  heart  that  Peter  might 
care  for  her  in  a  way  in  w^hich  she  was  her- 
self, perhaps,  constitutionally  incapable  of 
caring  for  any  one.  And,  indeed,  Peter  never 
was  in  love  wnth  her;  he  onlj^  loved  her — just 
as  the  shaggy  old  dog  he  strongly  resembled 
might  humbly  and  dumbly  love  his  mistress. 
When  Don  Luis  joined  the  lessons,  Peter  no 
more  disliked  his  presence  than  the  worshipper 
at  a  shrine  resents  the  other  worshippers. 

He  was,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  slow  and 
clumsy  pupil.    His  hands  had  been  long  used 


PARSON  GRANT  67 

to  a  more  practical  weapon  than  a  pen;  and 
he  could  never  think  quickly. 

The  spring  merged  into  an  intense,  breath- 
less summer,  with  that  strange  air  of  waiting 
and  expectancy  conveyed  by  great  heat — with 
the  sky  above  always  a  fervent  blue,  and  the 
patio,  or  the  deep  shadows  of  the  eucalyptus, 
the  only  places  where  one  could  live. 

Suddenly,  one  burning  day,  Teresa  was 
taken  ill  with  one  of  those  fearfully  rapid 
inflammatory  complaints,  little  understood 
now,  and  wholly  misunderstood  then.  Peter, 
with  his  rheumatic  limbs  forced  to  an  activity 
he  did  not  even  feel  painful,  and  only  his 
thatch  of  hair  to  protect  his  head  from  the 
fierce  sun,  rushed  the  four  miles  into  Ronda 
for  the  doctor. 

But  before  the  next  noon  Teresa  was  dead, 
and  Peter  was  sitting,  dull  and  stricken, 
under  the  eucalyptus,  trying,  with  the  help 
of  the  little,  old  grammar,  to  write  some 
necessary  letters  for  the  poor  old  Don. 

Peter's  Spanish — together  with  the  dis- 
turbed state  of  the  country — may  have  been 
the  reason  why  no  relative  of  any  kind  ap- 
peared for  several  days.  It  thus  fell  to  Peter 
himself  to  make  all  the  arrangements  for  her 
funeral — badly,  but  as  best  he  could.     Don 


68  BASSET 

Luis  found  a  comfort  in  his  presence — ^he  had 
realized  his  guest's  reverence  and  adoration 
for  Teresa — and  Peter  did  not  commit  the 
mistake  of  speech,  which,  in  the  early  stages 
of  grief,  so  often  makes  a  man  a  worse  com- 
forter than  a  dog.  By  the  hour  together, 
he  and  Don  Luis  sat  together  in  the  patio, 
smoking  the  eternal  cigarrito  of  the  Sj^aniard, 
and  sajang  nothing  at  all.  At  last,  there 
arrived  voluble,  tearful  relations;  and  Peter 
knew  that  his  mission  and  a  chapter  of  his  life 
w  ere  finished. 

He  said  good-bye  to  his  kind  and  broken 
host,  taking  with  him,  for  the  purpose  of  a 
correspondence,  the  grammar,  and  the  exer- 
cises which  Teresa  had  corrected.  He  found 
a  home-bound  ship  at  jNIalaga,  and  returned  to 
England.  For  a  while,  and  at  long  intervals, 
he  wrote  to  Don  Luis,  but  the  shortage  of 
Peter's  epistolary  ideas,  as  well  as  of  his 
Spanish,  soon  caused  the  correspondence  to 
wane;  and  at  last  it  died  altogether. 

The  first  news  that  met  Peter  on  his  ar- 
rival was  the  death  of  his  father. 

Peter's  name  had  not  been  mentioned  in 
the  despatches;  and  there  was  no  reason  why 
he  should  be  forgiven.  Old  ^Ir.  Grant  left 
practically  all  his  money — there  was  less  than 


PARSON  GRANT  69 

had  been  expected — to  his  daughter;  and  once 
again  his  son  found  himself  beginning  the 
world.  He  chanced  to  meet  one  day  Sir  John 
Railton,  then  quite  a  boy,  and  a  distant 
cousin  of  Peter's.  Sir  John,  having  extracted 
some  part  of  Peter's  story,  clapped  him  cheer- 
fully on  the  back,  and  suggested  he  should 
become  a  parson;  adding  that  old  Pil  of  Bas- 
set was  dead  certain  to  drop  off  soon,  and 
that  then  Peter  should  have  the  living  of 
Basset — be  hanged  if  he  shouldn't!  Perhaps 
Peter  was  dimlj^  aware  he  was  not  wholly 
cut  out  for  a  parson;  but  there  were  a  good 
many  as  little  suited  to  their  cloth;  and  his 
fortunes  were  at  a  low  ebb. 

Somehow,  he  scraped  through  his  Ordina- 
tion examinations — the  Bishop  must  surely 
have  been  a  cousin  too — was  ordained  to  a 
very  poor  curacy  near  Dilchester,  where  his 
usual  bad  luck  followed  him.  "  Old  Pil  "  per- 
versely lived  to  be  ninety ;  and  it  was  not  until 
the  reign  of  William  IV.  was  nearly  ended, 
and  Peter  himself  was  about  fifty  years  old, 
that  he  at  last  received  his  reward,  and  be- 
came, as  the  youthful  patron  had  promised, 
Rector  of  Basset. 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  imagine  a 
greater    contrast    than    that    formed    by    the 


70  BASSET 

placid  jog-trot  life  of  the  country  clergy  of 
that  day  and  the  fierce  excitement  of  Peter's 
military  youth — unless  it  were  the  contrast  be- 
tween little,  dull,  English  Basset,  with  its  few 
cottages  with  smoke-wreathed  chimneys,  the 
green  green  and  stagnant  pond,  the  still,  grey 
landscape  and  the  white  ribbon  of  the  turn- 
pike road  winding  through  it,  and  the  riot  of 
rich  colour,  the  luxuriant  tropical  growths,  the 
warmth,  passion  and  glow  of  Southern  Spain. 

Peter's  long  curacy  had  indeed  given  him 
plenty  of  time  to  become  acclimatized;  only 
he  had  known  the  curacy  to  be  a  stepping- 
stone,  a  means  to  an  end,  while  Basset  was 
the  last  word,  and  for  life. 

The  Rectory  was  a  large  house;  not  so 
forlorn  and  shabb}^  when  Peter  took  posses- 
sion of  it  as  it  afterwards  became.  He  had 
the  benefit  of  the  Pilkington  flock  wall- 
paj^ers — outlined  here  and  there  with  the 
shape  of  Pilkington  sideboards  and  ward- 
robes, removed.  He  bought  at  the  Pilkington 
sale  a  horse-hair  suite  for  his  dining-room ;  and 
took  over  the  Pilkington  oilcloth,  wearing  into 
holes,  in  the  hall,  and  a  disconsolate  umbrella- 
stand.  He  further  bought  an  ancient  leather 
chair  for  the  study — so-called;  and  the  auc- 
tioneer who  was  disposing  of  the  Pilkington 


PARSON  GRANT  71 

effects  delicately  suggested  that  some  of  the 
ponderous  tomes  from  which  the  late  rector 
had  drawn  material  for  his  sermons  would  at 
least  look  well  in  Peter's  study;  and  then, 
seeing  the  ineffectiveness  of  that  argument  on 
Peter's  honest  mind,  observed  how  badly  off 
the  elderly  Miss  Pilkingtons  were  left — and 
Peter  purchased  at  once. 

The  drawing-room  he  decided  to  use  as  a 
lumber-room.  The  auctioneer  persuaded  him 
into  a  vast  four-post  bed,  adding,  as  an  in- 
ducement, that  three  Pilkingtons  had  already 
died  in  it,  and  that  its  excellent  durability 
made  it  more  than  probable  that  Peter  might 
die  in  it  too. 

His  sister,  Maria,  sent  him  as  much  house- 
hold linen  as  she  thought  he  was  fit  to  be 
entrusted  with.  Peter  found  an  elderly  cou- 
ple in  the  village  to  manage  for  him — or, 
more  correctly,  the  elderly  couple  found  Peter 
to  manage — and  he  began  to  be  Rector  of 
Basset. 

It  is  a  great  mistake,  and  a  common  mis- 
take, to  think  that  because  the  modern  parson 
has  a  standard  of  duty  at  once  broader  and 
higher  than  any  these  old  parsons  set  up  for 
themselves,  therefore  the  old  parsons  were  not, 
as  a  general  rule,  conscientious  persons.     If 


72  BASSET 

they  shot,  hunted,  and  dined  freely  enough, 
it  was  because  there  appeared  to  them  no 
reason  why  the  man  of  God  should  not  be 
something  of  a  man  of  the  world  as  well. 
Old  Pilkington  certainly  had  acted  up  to  liis 
lights,  and  conducted  his  services,  as  he  be- 
lieved, decently  and  in  order.  Peter's  code  of 
duty  was  shorter  and  rougher,  but  such  com- 
mands as  he  heard  he  obeyed  doggedly  and 
faithfully;  and  if  he  considered  that  he  had 
a  right  to  be  on  leave  all  the  week  and  in 
marching  orders  on  Sunday  only,  three  parts 
of  the  Established  Church  of  his  day  shared 
that  opinion  with  him. 

About  nine,  then,  on  most  week-days,  he 
partook  of  a  leisurely,  untid}^  breakfast,  and 
smoked  three  or  four  cigarettes  thoughtfully 
after  it. 

That  smoking  was  the  worst  accusation 
Basset  ever  brought  against  him.  Then,  in- 
deed, smoking  was  still  considered  a  low  or 
a  fast  habit;  even  Harry  Latimer,  in  liis 
free  and  easy  bachelor  daj^s,  never  smoked 
anywhere  but  in  the  stables  or  in  a  remote 
upjoer  room;  and  after  Pollie's  advent,  she 
used  to  purify  a  place  in  which  some  one  had 
had  a  pipe  much  more  vigorously  than  she 
would  have  thought  of  doing  if  some  one  had 


PARSON  GRANT  73 

had  scarlet-fever.  Most  of  his  congregation 
would  have  considered  it  preferable  that  Peter 
should  smell  of  drink  than  of  smoke.  Miss 
Pilkington,  whose  adored,  excellent  papa  had 
had  three  parts  of  a  bottle  of  port  regularly 
every  night,  thought  Peter's  pet  vice  so  hor- 
rible that  she  could  never  bear  to  allude  to  it. 

Peter,  who  was  little  affected  by  people's 
opinions,  even  when  he  divined  them,  which 
was  not  often,  never  smoked  the  cigarettes 
out  of  doors,  or,  as  it  were,  before  the  parish; 
but  within  he  found  Don  Luis'  habit  of  infinite 
comfort  and  calm. 

After  the  morning  cigarettes,  it  was  his 
habit  to  stej)  softly,  in  carpet  slippers,  down 
the  long-flagged  passage  to  the  kitchen  and 
meekly  ask  Mrs.  Ainger  for  his  boots,  with 
an  undoubted  apology  in  his  gruff  tones  for 
having  taken  the  liberty  to  be  born  with 
feet.  Peter,  indeed,  was  the  kind  of  man  who 
would  eat  saltless  eggs  for  ever  rather  than 
ring  the  bell;  and,  such  is  the  pusillanimity 
of  six  feet  in  its  socks  before  four  feet  three 
in  the  person  of  a  determined  little  black-eyed 
woman,  that  he  had  actually  on  one  occasion 
deceitfully  put  a  bleeding  chop  into  the  fire 
rather  than  confess  to  Mrs.  Ainger,  by  leav- 
ing it  on  his  plate,  that  it  had  been  uneatable. 


74  BASSET 

Of  Ainger  mari  he  was  considerably  less 
afraid;  indeed,  it  was  only  before  the  weak 
and  defenceless  that  Peter  himself  became 
timid  and  unresisting. 

All  day  long,  sometimes,  he  and  Ainger 
gardened,  Ainger  doing  a  good  deal  of  lean- 
ing on  his  spade  and  contemplating  the  land- 
scape and  the  political  situation,  but  Peter 
working  with  the  solid  thoroughness  with 
which  he  had  ragged  at  the  University  or 
shot  down  Frenchmen  at  Badajoz.  To  paint 
one's  own  gates  and  tar  one's  own  fences  was 
not  esteemed  b)^  an  age  greatly  more  conven- 
tional than  our  own  to  be  a  gentlemanly 
proceeding,  any  more  than  to  turn  one's  self 
into  a  hob-nail  Hodge  and  dig  and  plant  the 
garden  was  the  work  of  a  gentleman;  but, 
somehow,  no  one  ever  mistook  old  Peter  for 
anything  else. 

If  his  want  of  means  fortunately  supplied 
him  with  a  good  deal  of  work,  it  somewhat 
limited  liis  play. 

He  kept  no  carriage;  not  even  what  Syd- 
ney Smith  called  "  one  of  those  Shem,  Ham, 
and  Japhet  buggies,  made  on  INIount  Ararat 
soon  after  the  subsidence  of  the  waters,"  which 
were  to  be  found  in  many  a  rectory  stable. 
He  could  not  hunt  unless  some  one  mounted 


PARSON  GRANT  75 

him.  Good-natured  Harry  Latimer,  indeed, 
did  that  not  seldom;  and  Peter  was  such  a 
first-rate  shot  with  his  antiquated  flint-lock 
that  he  got  many  a  day  in  the  coverts  with 
the  local  squires.  They  thought  him  a  stupid 
fellow  enough  when  he  dined  with  them  and 
their  lady  wives  and  daughters  of  an  after- 
noon, and  so  he  was.  When  the  men  tried  to 
draw  him  out  on  the  subject  of  his  military 
experiences  over  the  wine  after  dinner,  no 
glib  meanderings  from  the  point  would  roll 
off  his  difficult  tongue.  He  filled  up  his 
glass  in  an  obstinate,  heavy  silence;  and 
kept  it.  Occasionally  Dr.  Benet  dined  with 
him — a  very  bad  dinner — at  the  Rectory. 
Old  Benet,  perhaps,  guessed,  very  vaguely, 
at  something  in  Peter's  heart  or  history,  not 
for  prying  eyes. 

At  the  Manor,  the  Parson  dined  often, 
and  loved  to  dine.  Practical  Pollie  always 
remembered  the  dishes  he  liked;  and  when 
she  sang  "  I'd  be  a  Butterfly  "  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, he  used  to  take  up  a  most  awkward 
position  on  a  chair  just  behind  her,  where 
he  sat  well  forwards,  with  his  large  red  hands 
on  his  knees,  and  his  eyes  looking  straight 
into  space. 

Presently,  she  learnt  a  couple  of  those  Irish 


76  BASSET 

]Melodies  of  INIoore's  which  tug  at  the  heart- 
strings, and  at  which  the  women  of  that  time 
would  weep  and  faint  with  a  long  extinct 
sensibiHty.  Sentiment  only  made  old  Peter 
grimmer  and  gruffer  than  ever.  But  he  never 
forgot  to  ask  for  the  INIelodies  regularly  every 
time  he  came;  and  when  Pollie  had  sung 
them  and  administered  to  him  four  large 
cups  of  tea,  and  Dim  and  Tim  rubbed 
themselves  in  canine  friendliness  against 
his  legs,  he  would  tramp  home,  not  ill- 
content. 

Of  course,  now  and  then,  there  were  secular 
duties  connected  with  the  parish,  and  a  pa- 
rishioner came  to  consult  him  about  selling  a 
pig  or  making  a  will;  while  sometimes,  natu- 
rally, persons  elected  to  die,  to  be  baptized, 
or  to  be  buried,  on  week-days.  Though  Peter 
seldom  visited  anj^  one,  unless  asked,  when 
asked,  he  would  walk  his  ten  miles — his  par- 
ish was  very  stragghng — at  any  time,  and 
through  any  weather;  and  though,  when  he 
had  read  to  the  sick  person  a  chapter  of  the 
Bible  (seldom  well  selected),  he  had  no  spirit- 
ual consolations  to  offer  and  sat  by  the  bed 
dull  and  dumb  enough,  yet,  somehow,  there 
was  an  atmosphere  of  sympathy  about  him 
not  misunderstood,   and  many  an  old   crone 


PARSON  GRANT  77 

died  the  easier  for  the  grasp  of  the  Parson's 
hand. 

His  Sundays  were  really  laborious. 

In  the  very  early  days  of  his  curacy, 
wretched  Peter  had  once  sat  for  five  whole 
hours  gazing  despairingly  at  a  virgin  sheet  of 
manuscript,  mending  dozens  of  quill  pens, 
and  giving  himself  a  severe  headache,  without 
even  reaching  the  text  of  his  first  sermon. 
Then  he  strode  into  Dilchester,  spent  a  sum 
he  could  very  ill  afford  on  two  hundred 
Original  Discourses — of  great  variety  of  sub- 
ject, said  the  advertisement,  and  might  have 
added,  of  doctrine  as  well.  The  absurd 
prejudice,  still  extant,  of  not  reading  printed 
and  published  sermons  by  well-known  writers 
was  much  more  violent  then — as  were  all 
prejudices — than  it  is  now.  So  Peter,  both  at 
his  curacy  and  at  Basset,  kept  those  two 
hundred  Original  Discourses  in  his  boot-cup- 
board in  a  pile,  and  twice  on  Sundays 
preached  the  top  ones,  which,  used,  he  duly 
placed  at  the  bottom  till  their  turn  came 
round  again. 

Armed,  then,  with  one  of  these  Discourses, 
— rather  dirty  through  having  come  in  con- 
tact with  the  boots — he  walked  to  church 
every  Sunday  morning.    He  did  not  feel  it  to 


78  BASSET 

be  part  of  his  duty  to  compel  the  louts  on  the 
green  to  come  in;  so  .they  bade  hun  good- 
morning  sheepishly  and  with  perfect  good- 
nature, and  stayed  outside. 

Mr.  Pilkington  had  been  a  luxurious  per- 
son who  had  had  the  church  w^armed  in  win- 
ter b}^  a  stove.  Hardier  Peter  simply  put  on 
his  great-coat  beneath  his  surplice,  causing 
himself  to  look  like  a  very  long,  stout,  ani- 
mated bolster,  with  a  j^air  of  workaday  legs 
appearing  beneath  it.  The  IManor  pew  had  a 
fire-place,  in  which  Pollie  had  a  fire  lit  by  one 
of  the  JNIanor  servants  an  hour  before  church- 
time,  and  sensible  ISlrs.  Benet  brought  one 
extra  shawl  for  her  own  shoulders,  and  an- 
other for  her  good  man's  legs. 

In  Peter's  code  of  duty  it  was  written 
large  that  the  seldomness  of  his  services 
should  be  compensated  by  their  length.  So 
all  that  can  be  put  into  Order  for  JMorning 
Prayer,  he  put  there ;  the  clerk  was  immensely 
leisurely  and  droning;  "the  music" — always 
so-called — consisting  of  a  small  band  of  about 
four  instruments,  and  occupying  the  little 
western  gallery,  played  very  loud  and  slow; 
while  the  bought  sermon  was,  of  course — 
since  it  is  much  easier  to  be  lengthy  than 
brief,  and  apparently  impossible  when  one  has 


PARSON  GRANT  79 

nothing  to  say  to  hel})  saying  it  at  immense 
length — never  less  than  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  in  duration. 

One  morning,  Peter,  in  the  great  pulpit, 
would  find  himself  enunciating  a  smug  Evan- 
gelicalism, and  in  the  afternoon  he  was  mildly 
— to  be  sure,  very  mildly — Latitudinarian; 
and  once  he  surprised  himself  stumbling 
through  a  diatribe  against  the  iniquities  of 
Rome.  He  never  did  it  again.  The  next 
day  he  marshalled  his  Two  Hundred  in  front 
of  him,  and  disgraced  from  the  ranks  any 
containing  allusions  to  the  Scarlet  Lady  or 
the  Damnable  Doctrine  of  Indulgences. 
Peter  had  seen  Roman  Catholicism  at  first 
hand — not  always  a  much  better  kind  than 
that  the  Discourses  pointed  in  such  lurid 
colours;  but,  then,  he  had  known  one  to 
whom  Catholicism  was  an  inspiration  of  a 
divine  purit}^  a  most  fervent,  assured  faith, 
and  Parson  Grant  was  doggedly  deter- 
mined to  leave  it  to  the  other  parsons  to 
decry. 

As  for  his  congregation  becoming  drowsy 
during  his  sermons,  that  Peter  took  as  quite 
natural,  and  was  neither  amused  nor  discom- 
fited when  an  old  gaffer  on  the  front  free  seat 
put  up  his  legs  on  it  the  moment  the  text 


8o  BASSET 

was  given  out,  that  he  might  sleep  the  more 
at  his  ease. 

]Mr.  Pilkington  had  kept  the  church  well 
swept,  mended,  and  garnished.  But  when 
the  cloth  covering  on  the  Table  fell  into  rags, 
that  neglect  did  not  seem  to  Peter  to  be  of 
the  least  consequence;  and  when  the  clerk 
suggested  the  drawer  in  that  Table  to  be  a 
handy  place  in  which  to  keep  the  tallow  dips 
and  the  matches  wherewith  the  pulpit  was  lit 
at  afternoon  service,  Peter  readily  agreed. 

Old  Pilkington,  again,  had  pleasantly  but 
firmly  reprimanded  "  the  music  "  after  service, 
when,  during  service,  it  had  become  particu- 
larly discordant  and  noisy;  but  in  Peter's  day 
the  'cello — played  by  the  village  cobbler — 
was  allowed  to  drown  all  the  other  instru- 
ments until,  in  despair,  the}"  themselves  quar- 
relled with  it  at  the  alehouse  one  evening, 
and  reduced  it,  bj^  the  logic  of  the  fist,  to 
comparative  silence. 

Nor  did  it  seem  wrong  to  Peter,  when  he 
acquired  a  large,  underbred  dog  like  a  brown 
rug,  to  allow  Rover  to  rove  up  the  aisle  to 
the  vestry  with  him.  When  Rover  found 
the  service  too  long,  which,  with  his  excellent 
canine  judgment,  he  alwaj^s  did,  and  scrab- 
bled feelingly  at  the  vestry  door,  Peter  simply 


PARSON  GRANT  8i 

left  his  reading-desk  and  the  prayers,  and 
went  to  that  door  to  address  to  Rover  a  few 
calming  words,  perfectly  audible  throughout 
the  church. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  old  Peter  was  irrev- 
erent; but  that  he  had  lived,  rough  and  hard, 
amid  events  whose  magnitude  made  trifles, 
trifles  indeed,  and  if  he  had  been  able  to 
formulate  his  thoughts,  might  have  argued 
that  what  seemed  small  to  him  must  be  smaller 
indeed  to  Omnipotence,  ruling  the  stupendous 
events  of  all  the  world. 

Besides,  Peter  was  of  his  age.  When  once 
his  old  enemy,  rheumatism,  imprisoned  him 
to  the  house,  and  he  had  a  locujri  in  the  shaj^e 
of  what  Crabb  Robinson  would  have  called 
"  a  genteel  youth  with  a  Pusejdte  tendency," 
that  divine  was  not  half  so  shocked  by  the 
sins  of  omission  and  commission  he  found 
perpetrated  in  Basset  Church  as  genteel 
youths  with  a  Puseyite  tendency  would  be 
now.  It  is  pleasant  to  add  that  Peter  quite 
appreciated  in  this  aide-de-camp  his  greater 
diligence  and  strictness  of  life,  and  that  the 
genteel  youth  found  himself,  at  the  end  of 
a  very  brief  visit,  feeling  almost  affectionately 
towards  lax,  untidy  Parson  Grant. 

After  JNIr.  and  Mrs.  Ainger  had  managed 


82  BASSET 

the  Rectory  for  some  years,  Ainger  died. 
Peter  found  a  new  gardener,  and  INlrs.  Ainger 
continued  to  conduct  the  house. 

One  night,  about  a  year  after  these  events, 
Peter  sat  up  exceedingly  late,  smoking  ciga- 
rette after  cigarette,  and  composing  a  letter 
with  even  more  throes  and  difficulty  than  usu- 
ally accompanied  his  literary  productions. 
He  himself  posted  the  letter  the  next  morning. 

Three  days  later,  at  four  o'clock  on  a  win- 
ter afternoon,  as  he  sat  in  his  study,  repre- 
hensibly  smoking  as  usual,  the  door  opened 
(the  hall  doors  of  Basset  were  always  on  the 
latch),  and  Maria,  Peter's  sister,  from  whom 
he  had  been  contentedly  parted  for  many 
years,  suddenly  broke  in  upon  iiim.  She  was 
about  fifty-five,  stout  and  agitated,  the  stout- 
ness being  apparently  increased  by  her  volu- 
minous shawl,  bonnet  and  muff;  while  her 
agitation  was  such  that  she  omitted  all  greet- 
ing, and  simply  gasped — 

"Peter,  how  could  you?"  and  then  in  the 
same  breath,  "  You  have  been  smoking!  " 

Following  a  natural  instinct,  Peter  avowed 
the  lesser  of  two  sins,  and  made  some  in- 
distinct apologies  for  the  cigarettes.  But 
he  knew  very  well  that  Maria  had  a  point 
from  which  she  was  not  likelv  to  be  turned. 


PARSON  GRANT  83 

The  truth  was,  that  that  old  fool  Peter  had 
proposed  marriage  to  Mrs.  Ainger,  or  had 
been  made  by  her  to  think  that  he  had  pro- 
posed it.  Middle-aged  and  entirely  unbeauti- 
ful,  that  little,  determined  woman  had  posi- 
tively persuaded  Parson  Grant  that  she  had 
injured  a  hitherto  immaculate  reputation  by 
living  in  the  house  with  him  after  her  hus- 
band's death,  and  that  marriage  was  but  a 
just  reparation. 

Wretched  Peter  had  weakly  yielded  to 
these  representations;  but  some  life-preserv- 
ing instinct  had  made  him  immediately  write 
off  his  intentions  to  the  bold  and  decided 
INIaria.  She  argued  with  him — "  a  good  talk- 
ing to,"  was  her  own  expression — for  upwards 
of  an  hour,  discovered  there  had  been  no  let- 
ters, and  nothing  practically  in  the  shaj)e  of  a 
promise,  and  at  last  made  Peter — Peter  was 
so  unutterably  stupid! — see  that  he  was  the 
victim  of  an  artful  design. 

Then,  leaving  him  in  his  study,  she  hastened 
to  the  back  regions,  had  a  heated  conversation 
with  ]Mrs.  Ainger,  dismissed  and  packed  her 
off  then  and  there,  compensating  her  for  the 
inconvenience  of  a  hurried  departure  with  a 
sufficient  sum  of  money  (Peter's).  Breath- 
ing   asthmatically,    INI  aria    proceeded    to    the 


84  BASSET 

wintry  garden,  and  gave  notice  to  the  gar- 
dener, and  before  nightfall  had  discovered  a 
new,  promising  couple  to  take  charge  of  the 
Rectory — the  husband  being  so  much  younger 
than  the  wife  that  he  could  by  no  possibility 
die  first. 

That  night  INIaria  passed  under  her  broth- 
er's roof — tired,  triumphant,  and  a  Httle  short 
in  temi)er.  The  next  day  Peter  put  her  and 
her  carpet-bag  into  the  dilapidated  gig,  which 
was  the  only  vehicle  to  be  hired  in  Basset,  and 
she  returned  to  Dilchester,  and,  thence  by 
coach,  to  the  bosom  of  a  recklessly  large 
Early-Victorian  family,  having  accomplished, 
perhaps,  the  prime  good  deed  of  her  life. 

Old  Peter  went  back  with  heavy  steps  to 
the  study,  drew  out  the  cigarettes  again,  and 
passed  a  long,  idle,  thoughtful  evening,  smok- 
ing, while  distant  sounds  from  the  back 
regions  of  the  new  brooms  sweeping  clean 
reached  him,  not  disturbingly. 

It  was  five  and  twentj^  years  since  he  had 
left  Spain  and  Teresa;  and  there  were  mo- 
ments— only  moments — when  he  could  see 
them  as  clearly  as  if  the  five  and  twentj" 
years  were  yesterday.  The  "  idiocy  " — that 
was  Maria's  name  for  it — which  he  had  nearly 
perpetrated    did    not    soil,    because    it    never 


PARSON  GRANT  85 

touched  at  all,  that  episode  of  his  early  life. 
He  could  no  more  have  aspired  to  Teresa 
than  the  ragamuffin  in  the  crowd  can  aspire  to 
the  princess.  He  believed  that,  had  she  lived 
and  been  free,  he  could  never  have  asked 
more  than  to  touch  the  hem  of  her  garment, 
and  go  away.  It  is  true  that  in  these  dull, 
practical  years  he  was  not  always  thinking 
of  her.  It  is  only  in  books  that  people  re- 
member without  ceasing;  in  life  there  is 
always  something  to  be  done  next, 

"  And  we  forget  because  we  must, 
And  not  because  we  will." 

Memento  of  her,  save  the  many  correc- 
tions in  her  little  handwriting  in  the  Spanish 
exercise  books  which  he  kept  in  a  drawer  up- 
stairs, he  had  none.  At  first,  he  had  been 
used  to  look  at  them  often  and  with  an 
intolerable  pang;  after  a  while,  it  sufficed 
him  to  know  they  were  there;  and  at  last — so 
strangely  are  we  made — he  would  recall  the 
garden  at  Ronda,  and  Teresa  in  her  slim 
youth  and  with  her  delicate,  spiritual  face, 
without  sorrow.  Pollie  Latimer  would  have 
said  he  was  happy — he  had  kept  his  illusions. 
And,  indeed,  though  he  knew  humbly  that  as 
a    wife    Teresa    would    have    been    infinitely 


86  BASSET 

above  him,  it  never  once  occurred  to  him  that 
when  an  ordinary  man  marries  a  saint,  it 
may  not  be  only  the  saint  who  suffers. 

To-night,  his  mind  went  shpping  back  to 
old  times  more  than  usual. 

"  You  had  better  have  married  a  Span- 
iard! "  Maria  had  said,  as  though  a  Spaniard 
were  a  Hottentot.  As  a  rule,  in  the  solitary 
evenings,  Peter,  having  been  out  all  day  in  the 
fresh  air,  and  the  grog  at  his  side  being  strong, 
went  to  sleep.  But  to-night,  he  forgot  to 
drink  the  grog,  and  the  cigarette  ash  burnt  a 
hole  in  the  sleeve  of  his  forlorn  old  coat;  and 
it  was  so  late  when  he  went  to  bed  that  he 
crej)t  upstairs  in  his  large,  stockinged  feet, 
absurdly  afraid  of  waking  and  shocking  his 
brand-new  household. 

A  few  years  after  the  INIrs.  Ainger  epi- 
sode, of  which  Basset  never  even  heard — 
unluckily,  its  excitements  being  very  few — 
Parson  Grant  made  a  new  friend.  That  is 
to  say.  Tommy  Latimer  of  the  Manor,  then 
aged  about  four,  took  him  into  his  charge 
and  favour,  and  visited  him  whenever  he  was 
allowed  to,  and  sometimes  when  he  was  not. 
The  truth  is.  Tommy,  who  was  a  j^outh  of 
great  enterprise,  found  that  all  the  things  he 
was   forbidden  to   do  in  the   Manor  garden 


PARSON  GRANT  87 

were  permitted  to  him  at  the  Rectory — that 
there  he  could  survey  Hfe  from  the  top  of  the 
dust-heap  or  the  chicken-house  with  impunity. 
As  Tommy  was  always  talking  himself,  he 
did  not  notice  Peter's  conversational  deficien- 
cies. The  Parson,  indeed,  sat  in  his  study 
and  listened  quite  patiently  and  interestedly 
while  Tommy  counted  up  to  two  hundred, 
a  recently  acquired  accomplishment  under 
which  the  IManor  had  already  turned  restive. 

Occasionally,  as  a  great  treat,  Tommy  had 
the  delicious  enjoyment — he  thought  it  a 
delicious  enjoyment,  if  no  one  else  did — of 
dining  tete-a-tete  of  an  afternoon  with  his 
spiritual  director,  and,  after  dinner,  had  a 
little  decanter  and  wineglass  to  himself  and 
what  he  called  tawny-port — it  was,  indeed, 
very  tawny — to  drink;  and  then,  when  des- 
sert was  over,  the  Parson  would  show  him 
how  to  use  a  toy  sword — Tommy  making  a 
number  of  tidif,  eager  inquiries,  without  wait- 
ing for  the  answers,  as  to  real  battles. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  how  large  a  place 
the  friendship  for  the  child  took  in  the  Par- 
son's dull  and  limited  life  at  last.  Basset 
used  often  to  see  them,  walking  hand  in  hand 
through  the  village,  on  terms  of  the  greatest 
confidence.     Peter  would  call  on  Mrs.  Lati- 


88  BASSET 

mer  solely  in  the  hope — never  disappointed — 
of  hearing  her  talk  about  Tommy.  He 
walked  his  rheumatic  legs  into  Dilchester  to 
buy  the  child  toys  out  of  his  ill-filled  purse; 
and  when  Tommy  artfully  admired  anything 
at  the  Rectory,  that  weak  old  Peter  always 
gave  it  to  him. 

But  sometimes,  as  he  blundered  through 
one  of  the  bought  sermons  on  a  Sunday  after- 
noon, for  just  a  second  the  great  grey  church 
and  the  bats  in  the  roof,  "  the  music  "  fidget- 
ting  in  the  gallery,  the  Early- Victorian 
women  in  the  garish  hues  they  affected,  and 
even  flaxen-headed  Tommy  at  liis  mother's 
side,  were  as  though  they  were  not;  and 
Peter  saw  again  Teresa  in  her  black  robes  in 
the  Southern  garden — with  its  rich  tangle 
of  flowers  growing  on  the  broken  terraces,  the 
dark  patio,  and  the  white,  hot  wall  where  the 
lizards  sunned  themselves  and  the  great  clumiD 
of  bougainvilleas  hung  broken  by  its  ow^n 
weight. 


CHAPTER  IV 


DR.    RICHARD 


Ever  since  Basset  had  been  doctored  by  any- 
bod}^  it  had  been  doctored  by  Benets. 

In  the  Georgian  period,  Benet  pere  had 
set  up  in  Basset  his  httle  apothecary's  shop, 
with  his  name,  and  a  pestle  and  mortar  on 
a  board,  over  its  door;  had  made  pills,  po- 
tions and  plaisters  for  the  neighbourhood, 
sold  it  scented  soaps,  and  the  powder  many 
persons  still  Avore  in  their  hair;  had  ridden 
on  his  old  nag  to  most  of  the  houses  of  the 
local  gentry,  where  he  sometimes  took  a  glass 
of  wine  in  the  housekeeper's  room;  and  was 
considered  to  have  done  well  for  himself 
when  he  married  a  housekeeper's  niece. 

He  gave  his  son  a  very  fairly  good  medical 
education,  and  was  able  to  leave  him  not  only 
his  ])ractice,  but  an  exceedingl}^  modest  inde- 
pendent fortune  as  well.  Young  Dr.  Richard 
removed  from  above  the  door  the  board  with 
the  pestle  and  mortar  on  it,  while  he  con- 
tinued to  ply  those  instruments  and  to  live 

89 


90  BASSET 

in  the  house  of  his  father.  What  had  been 
the  shop,  with  two  pink  bottles  in  it,  became 
the  best  parlour,  and  a  very  small  surgery 
was  built  next  to  it.  Basset  began  to  talk 
of  calling  in  the  doctor,  instead  of  using  the 
'pothecary.  Present^  Dr.  Richard  married 
the  only  daughter  of  a  small  solicitor  in  Dil- 
chester;  JNlrs.  Latimer,  the  elder,  really  be- 
cause she  was  bored  and  idle,  and  society  in 
Basset  was  woefully  restricted,  and  not  with 
any  idea  of  creating  precedent,  called  on  the 
bride;  the  Pilkingtons  and  other  local  gentry 
followed  suit,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
if  a  man  be  worthy  to  kill  you  or  cure  you, 
he  may  be  suffered  to  dine  with  you  as  well. 

In  time,  there  were  no  better  liked  people 
by  all  classes  in  the  village  than  "  young  Dr. 
Benet  "  (as  Basset  persisted  in  calling  him, 
in  contradistinction  to  his  father,  long  after 
his  scanty  hair  was  grey  and  his  figure 
portly)   and  Jane,  his  wife. 

When  Harry  Latimer  had  indulged  in 
matrimonj^  some  few  years,  and  Parson 
Grant  had  narrowly  avoided  it,  the  Doctor 
was  about  sixty-eight  years  old,  short  in  the 
neck  and  leg,  with  a  wheezy,  astlimatical 
tendencj%  rather  a  red  face,  the  scanty  grey 
hair    (he  wore  no  ^vig)    having  a   surprised. 


DR.  RICHARD  91 

rumpled  appearance,  black  worsted  stockings, 
a  great  big  silver  watch,  and,  under  untidy, 
shaggy  grey  eyebrows,  a  pair  of  uncommonly 
penetrating   and   kindly   eyes. 

INIrs.  Benet  was  also  short  to  match  him, 
a  capable  person,  with  a  broad,  plain,  clever 
face,  skirts  sensibly  short,  shoes  sensibly  flat, 
wearing  on  the  top  of  her  own  hair  a  brown 
madonna  front,  which  she  hung,  with  simple 
straightforwardness,  with  her  cap  on  the  cap- 
stan b}^  the  looking-glass  every  night  when 
she  went  to  bed,  and  replaced  on  her  head, 
with  the  same  candid  honesty,  every  morning 
when  she  got  up.  Onlj^  her  husband's  affec- 
tion could  possibly  at  any  time  have  made 
him  find  her  attractive;  but,  after  all,  it  is 
much  better  to  be  thought  beautiful  because 
one  is  loved,  than  to  be  loved  because  one  is 
thought  beautiful. 

There  was  no  happier  home  in  Basset  than 
the  Doctor's  shabby  and  well-scrubbed  little 
house.  The  living-room,  though  it  was  fur- 
nished with  a  horsehair  suite,  a  brown  wall- 
paper, and  a  dismal  print  of  the  trial  of 
Queen  Caroline,  was  all  the  same  a  pleasant, 
lovable  place  when  the  old  curtains  were 
drawn  about  the  windows  on  a  wintry  night, 
a  bright  fire  ablaze,  and  the  tea  and  muffins 


92  BASSET 

on  the  table.  The  Benets'  Maggie,  a  short- 
sleeved,  short-frocked  creature  from  the 
dame-school,  sang  louder  and  more  cheerily 
over  her  kitchen  dish-washings  than  any- 
body else's  JNIaggie  in  the  neighbourhood. 
The  parlour,  once  the  shop,  was,  to  be  sure, 
a  cold,  stuff}^  room,  with  a  sofa  like  a  sar- 
cophagus, the  ornament  which  had  figured  on 
the  top  of  the  Benets'  wedding  cake  nearly 
forty  years  earlier  under  a  glass  shade  on  the 
table,  while  two  imitation  parrots  (in  wools, 
with  boot  buttons  for  eyes),  which  had  been 
made  and  presented  to  the  Benets  by  a  niece 
• — not  out  of  malice  prepense,  but  with  really 
kind  and  pleasant  intentions — surveyed  the 
scene  from  the  white  marble  mantelpiece. 
Still,  as  the  parlour  was  never  used  except  on 
the  rare  occasion  of  a  tea-party,  its  beauties 
gave  its  owners  satisfaction  without  incon- 
venience. 

Punctually  at  six  o'clock  everj^  morning, 
Mrs.  Benet  rose  softly  from  beside  her  sleej)- 
ing  lord,  and  in  a  serviceable  dressing-gown, 
and  with  an  infinitesimal  plait  of  grey  hair 
hanging  below  her  night-cap,  lit  a  tallow  dip, 
and  went  to  rouse  Maggie.  Then,  having 
performed  her  own  toilet  very  quietly, 
INIadam,  leaving  the  Doctor  still  slumbering. 


DR.  RICHARD  93 

descended  to  the  kitchen  to  cook  his  break- 
fast, while  the  youthful  Maggie  swept  and 
dusted  with  great  vigour,  humming  a  hymn 
beneath  her  breath. 

Directly  after  breakfast,  the  Doctor  went 
to  his  little  surgery,  and  there  doctored  the 
humbler  patients  who  came  to  see  him. 

There  were  not  many  of  them  as  a  rule — 
which  was  just  as  well  for  Dr.  Richard. 
]\lost  of  them  could  certainly  have  afforded 
much  better  to  pay  him  something,  than  he 
could  aiford  not  to  be  paid  at  all;  but  he  was 
of  an  age  which  made  quite  sure  that  to  be 
charitable  is  inevitably  to  do  good;  and  asked 
no  fees  from  the  poor  on  principle.  To  be 
sure,  despite  that  weakness,  they  were  a  little 
in  awe  as  well  as  fond  of  him.  For  the 
Doctor,  in  that  age  of  medical  darkness,  had 
what  is  more  useful  even  to  his  profession 
than  a  knowledge  of  medicine — a  great  knowl- 
edge of  character;  and  was  famous  for  his 
diagnosis  of  the  maladies  of  the  soul  as  well 
as  of  the  body.  He  not  only  perceived, 
which  was  easy,  from  the  look  of  Hodge's 
face  and  the  trembling  of  his  hands,  the  direc- 
tion of  Hodge's  wages;  but  saw,  though  in- 
deed only  in  a  glass  darkly,  what  few  people 
saw  at  all  in  that  day,  the  effect  of  mind  on 


94  BASSET 

body;  so  that  the  little  dressmaker,  a  meek, 
frightened  thing,  who  had  rashly  set  up  for 
herself  in  Basset — the  Basset  ladies  having 
hitherto  had  all  their  garments  made  in  Dil- 
chester — required,  not  physic  and  plaisters,  as 
she  believed,  but  a  start,  and  an  order  from 
little  ]Mrs.  Latimer  at  the  jNlanor.  The  very 
next  afternoon.  Dr.  Richard  wheezed  up  the 
JSIanor  drive  to  see  Pollie;  obtained  her  word, 
which  was  as  good  as  a  bond,  to  assist  Miss 
Fitten;  and  cured  his  patient. 

Yet  Dr.  Benet  was  certainly  not  so  su- 
perior to  his  age  as  to  disbelieve  in  drugs. 
His  visitors  at  the  surgery  would  have  been 
bitterly  disappointed  if  he  had  not  sent  them 
away  laden  with  pill-boxes  and  medicine- 
bottles,  and  would  certainly  not  have  believed 
that  they  could  be  really  better,  unless  they 
had  first  been  made  to  feel  very  much  worse. 

At  half-past  nine,  the  Doctor  locked  up 
the  surgery  door,  and  went  into  the  kitchen 
to  tell  his  wife  of  some  invalid  who  would  be 
the  better  for  some  milk,  and  of  another  who 
would  like  one  of  her  puddings.  INIrs.  Benet 
herself  buttoned  her  husband's  round,  short 
figure  into  his  driving-coat,  and  put  his  great 
neckcloth  the  proper  number  of  times  round 
his    neck — or    as    many    times    as    the    neck 


DR.  RICHARD  95 

permitted — gave  him  a  sound  smack  on  the 
shoulder  instead  of  a  kiss,  and  came  down 
the  flagged  path  to  see  him  start  off  in  the 
gig,  sometimes  with  George,  the  groom,  but 
more  often  without  him.  The  horse — fifteen 
years  earher  he  had  been  named,  not  so  very 
inaptly,  Neck-or-Nothing — had  to  be  roused 
from  the  doze  into  which  he  always  fell,  from 
long  habit,  directly  he  pulled  up  at  any  hu- 
man habitation;  the  Doctor  drew  the  old 
driving-apron  over  his  knees,  shook  his  whip 
as  good-bye  at  his  wife,  and  Neck-or-Nothing 
(who  was  fat  as  well  as  lazy)  ambled  tran- 
quill}^  through  little  Basset  into  the  country 
lanes  beyond. 

Dr.  Benet  had  a  very  scattered  practice, 
and  if  people  had  sent  for  the  doctor  in  those 
days  half  as  often  as  they  do  now,  would 
have  been  busy  indeed. 

For  the  ten  years  between  1830  and  1840 
were  among  the  most  unhealthy  in  modern 
history.  The  poor — not  only  the  poor  of  the 
great  towns,  but  of  little  villages  like  Bas- 
set— lived  in  a  condition  of  filth  and  over- 
crowding, with  which  there  was  no  sanitary 
inspector  to  interfere.  An  excellent  authority 
declared  that,  even  among  the  wealthy  classes, 
"  the  broad  principles  of  drainage  were  less 


96  BASSET 

understood  than  they  had  been  in  Xineveh, 
and  were  certainly  not  as  good  as  they  were 
in  Rome  under  Augustus."  Provisions  were 
very  dear,  and  trade  very  bad.  The  waves  of 
typhus,  cholera,  and  small-pox  which  broke 
over  the  country,  were  accepted  with  a  most 
fatal  fatalism.  The  health  of  the  people  was 
not  improved  by  the  little  beer-shops  which, 
in  addition  to  the  public-houses  proper,  were 
opened  everywhere,  after  the  repeal  of  the 
beer  duty  in  1830. 

But  old  Dr.  Benet,  with  many  of  liis  breth- 
ren, was  prevented  from  being  overworked 
or  rich,  not  only  by  the  fact  that  people 
doctored  their  small  ailments  themselves, 
but  by  the  rarity  of  the  nen^ous  diseases 
which  have  since  become  so  lucrative  a  part  of 
medical  practice;  and  by  that  very  fatalism 
which  made  people  not  only  accept  their  sick- 
ness as  from  Heaven,  but  trust  their  cure  to 
it  as  well. 

It  was,  perhaps,  at  some  desolate  cottage 
that  Neck-or-Nothing  pulled  up  first;  and 
the  old  Doctor  climbed  down,  stoutly  and 
with  difficulty,  with  a  great  physic  bottle 
sticking  out  of  his  pocket,  knotted  the  reins 
on  the  gatepost,  and  went  within.  Be  sure 
his   perspicacity   seldom   deceived   him   as   to 


DR.  RICHARD  97 

whether  the  starved  look  on  his  peaky  child- 
patient's  face  was  there  because  the  parents 
would  not,  or  because  they  could  not,  feed  it 
j^roperly.  Plausible  explanations  were  lost 
on  the  Doctor  somehow.  Those  eyes  under 
the  shaggy  eyebrows  might  be  old  eyes,  but 
they  were  alert  enough.  Sometimes,  out  of 
the  i)ocket  with  the  physic  came  some  rough 
toy,  which  Mrs.  Benet,  who  had  a  maternal 
heart  under  her  brisk,  manly  aspect,  had  sent 
the  child.  When  Mrs.  Hodge  came  to  the 
gate  to  see  him  drive  away,  the  Doctor  would 
ask  why,  if  there  was  always  enough  money 
for  the  beer-house,  there  should  not  be  enough 
for  milk;  adding  that  he  would  call  in  again 
in  a  week,  and  should  easily  see  by  the  look 
of  his  patient  where  the  money  had  gone. 

JMore  often,  a  grateful  sufferer  paid  his 
fee  in  the  form  of  a  basket  of  crab-apples,  or 
half  a  sack  of  potatoes;  Neck-or-Nothing 
would  turn  his  lazy  head,  and  look  rei^roach- 
fully  at  his  master,  as  these  make-weights 
were  being  thumped  into  the  gig. 

Now  and  again,  in  a  green  spring  lane, 
the  Doctor  would  stop,  dig  up  some  ferns  and 
primroses,  and  add  further  to  the  burdens  in 
the  carriage.  Except  in  rare  cases,  he  was 
nearly  as  leisurely  as  his  horse,  and  did  not 


98  BASSET 

as  a  rule  suppose  his  advice  would  turn  the 
scales  of  life  and  death.  If  Xature  had  not 
been,  so  to  speak,  wholly  out  of  court  in  that 
da}',  old  Benet  would  have  trusted  to  her;  as 
it  was,  though  he  believed,  more  or  less, 
with  the  rest  of  his  profession,  in  his  oa^ti 
interference  with  her  operations,  he  Avas 
Avise  enough  to  belicA^e  rather  less  than 
more. 

At  the  great  house,  at  AA^hich  he  arrived 
present^,  he  descended  from  the  gig  at  the 
hall  door — a  dreadful  Roman  portico — as 
clumsil}'  and  unconcernedly  as  if  the  eye  of 
the  spacious  and  magnificent  footman  Avere 
but  the  humble  and  uncritical  orb  of  jNIrs. 
Hodge.  Xor  did  the  languid  fine  airs  of  the 
local  magnate's  lady  in  the  drawing-room — 
Avho  was  anxious  to  impress  upon  him  that, 
for  her,  the  apothecary,  the  attorney,  the 
merchant,  Avere  an  entirely  different  and 
loAver  class  from  the  landed  gentry — affect 
him  at  all.  He  Avas  simply  busy  about  his 
duties;  and,  for  him,  her  airs  AA^ere  merely 
part  of  the  day's  work.  She  found  out  too, 
in  time,  that  instead  of  the  stout,  AA-heezy, 
grey-headed  little  apothecary  being  afraid  of 
her,  she  had  become  herself  a  little  afraid 
of  him,  as  being  imperturbably  candid,  and 


DR.  RICHARD  99 

having  a  disconcerting  knack  of  hitting  the 
right  nail  on  the  head. 

It  was  difficult  for  the  Doctor,  when  she 
took  him  presently  to  her  invalid  husband's 
room,  to  convey  without  offence  to  Sir 
Thomas  INIainwaring  that  he  ate  too  much 
and  drank  too  much;  but  somehow  old  Benet 
did  it.  It  was  not  that  he  had  a  good  bedside 
manner.  The  cultivated,  pompous  cheerful- 
ness, the  fresh,  jovial  air  of  heartiness  and 
prosperity  which  is  supposed  to  enliven  the 
sick,  Dr.  Richard  had  not.  It  is  true  he  liked 
his  joke,  and  when  he  laughed  his  long,  shak- 
ing asthmatic  chuckle,  which  threatened  to 
break  the  chair  under  him  and  even  to  end 
his  life  suddenly  in  an  apoplexy,  the  patient 
must  needs  laugh  too.  Dr.  Benet's  bedside 
manner  was,  in  fact,  his  own  natural  manner 
— and  perhaps,  after  all,  that  is  in  all  cir- 
cumstances, private  or  professional,  the  best 
manner  there  is. 

He  left  Sir  Thomas  and  my  Lady  with 
the  conviction  that  he  had  spoken  the  truth; 
and  that,  if  that  truth-speaking  cost  him  their 
patronage,  he  would  amble  back  to  Basset  in 
his  disgraceful  old  gig  to  his  shabby  house, 
hourgeoise  wife,  and  second-rate  friends,  quite 
philosophically. 


loo  BASSET 

The  Baronet  and  his  Lady  were  sensible 
enough  to  see  the  advantage  of  such  a  medi- 
cal adviser  over  the  politer  Dr.  Clarke  from 
Dilchester,  who  kow-towed  to  them,  and 
called  their  complaints  by  much  j)leasanter 
names;  and  when  Sir  Thomas  over-ate  and 
drank  liimself  again,  it  was  old  Dr.  Richard 
who  was  requested  to  step  in  and  tell  him  so. 

Verj^  many  of  liis  cases  were,  of  course,  far 
more  sad  and  difficult. 

There  were  times  when  he  came  from  some 
house  of  mourning,  pondering  over  the  spec- 
tacle of  men  grieving  because  they  could 
not  grieve;  or  on  the  problem  that  innocence 
should  suffer  so  damnably  for  guilt,  while 
guilt  sometimes — but  not  often,  because  they 
who  sow  to  the  flesh  are  wont  to  reap  corrup- 
tion even  in  this  world — goes  healthy  and 
free. 

The  reins  lay  so  loosely  on  Xeck-or-Xoth- 
ing's  back,  that  that  prudent  animal  would 
sometimes  stop  altogether  and  take  a  nap, 
wliile  his  master  meditated.  In  a  hovel,  per- 
haps, the  Doctor  had  left  some  miserable 
creature,  diseased  and  poor,  with  notliing  to 
live  for,  and  yet  clinging  to  life;  and  in  some 
wealthy  and  substantial  house.  Youth  with  his 
world  at   his   feet,   but  not   loth  to  leave  it. 


DR.  RICHARD  loi 

Who  should  solve  these  riddles?  Was  there 
any  solution  of  the  Great  Riddle,  after  all? 
The  Doctor  remembered  his  whereabouts 
with  a  start,  gave  the  reins  a  jerk,  and  trotted 
tranquilly  home,  beneath  fleecy  skies,  between 
the  meadows  where  the  lambs  were  already 
bleating,  and  saw  from  the  fall  and  decay  of 
autumn, 

"  New  blossoms  flourish,  and  new  flowers  arise 
As  God  had  been  abroad,  and  walking  there 
Had  left  His  footsteps,  and  reformed  the  year." 

At  home — he  reached  it  at  most  irregular 
hours,  though  seldom  until  late  afternoon,  on 
account  of  the  long  distances  between  the 
houses  of  his  patients — his  wife  was  always 
about,  awaiting  him.  The  pickles  she  pickled, 
the  sound  ale  she  brewed,  the  blackings  and 
furniture  polishes  she  invented,  the  cleanings 
she  personally  prosecuted  or  supervised,  in 
his  absence,  would  have  been  impossible  to 
a  less  indefatigable  person.  In  their  small 
back  garden  she  kept  chickens,  and  attended 
to  them  herself;  keeping  a  sharp  eye  mean- 
time on  George,  planting  spinach. 

Jane  Benet  had  not  wasted  much  of  her 
day    over    that    abominable    institution,    the 


I02  BASSET 

morning  call.  ]\Irs.  Latimer  was  alwaj^s  bus}' 
herself;  and  with  ]Miss  Pilkington,  who  was 
not,  old  Jeannie  evinced  a  somewhat  short 
patience  when  Rachel  sat  in  the  Doctor's 
prim,  damp  parlour  prattling  politely,  and 
sipping  cowslip  wine. 

It  was  generally  said,  indeed,  that  Jane 
Benet  had  a  temper,  and  since  there  is  no 
having  a  character  without  one,  no  doubt  she 
had.  But  that  temper,  like  her  house^\dfely 
qualities,  was  used  for  her  "  old  man,"  as 
she  called  him,  and  not  against  him.  If  she 
scolded  George  and  JMaggie,  it  was  in  her 
determination  to  have  everything  spick  and 
span  for  the  Doctor  when  he  came  back;  and 
she  did  not  mind  in  the  least  how  much  mud 
his  Wellingtons  brought  into  her  minute, 
spotless  passage  called  a  hall.  She  unwound 
that  many-wreathed  neckcloth  from  his  short 
neck,  and  made  wifely  inquiries  as  to  whether 
he  had  eaten  the  sandwich  she  had  put  into 
his  pocket  in  the  morning.  If  he  looked  tired 
or  worried,  she  was  not  the  fool  to  ask  him 
why  or  wherefore;  instead,  she  arranged  for 
dinner  to  be  half  an  hour  earlier,  and,  weather 
permitting,  put  his  old  armchair  and  slippers 
cosity  near  the  fire  of  the  homely  living-room. 

Their  dinner  was  generally  about  four — a 


DR.  RICHARD  103 

fearsome  hour,  if  it  involves  making  small- 
talk  to  guests  for  the  remainder  of  the  even- 
ing, but  not  such  a  bad  hour  if  that  evening 
is  to  be  a  deux,  and  those  two  find  in  each 
other's  society  an  entire  satisfaction. 

When  Maggie  had  cleared  the  table,  Jane 
Benet  snuffed  the  tallow  candles,  and  stitched 
at  one  of  the  Doctor's  shirts,  while  Richard 
made  up  his  books.  Then,  work  and  business 
were  put  away,  the  candles  were  snuffed 
again,  INIaggie  brought  in  the  tea-tray,  Jean- 
nie  brewed  her  good-man  and  herself  an  ex- 
cellent, strong  cup  apiece,  and,  placing  their 
substantial  feet  on  the  fender  and  drawing 
up  to  the  fire,  they  each  produced  a  novel. 
Dr.  Richard  nearly  chuckled  himself  into  a 
fit  over  "  Pickwick,"  which  had  just  appeared 
as  a  whole,  and  which  he  had  borrowed  from 
the  Dilchester  book-club;  while  large  tears 
rolled  down  Mrs.  Benet's  capacious  cheeks 
over  the  yards  of  sentiment  and  pathos  in 
the  last  fashionable  romance  by  a  Lady  of 
Title.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  whether 
Doctor  or  Mrs.  Doctor  had  the  greater 
enjoyment. 

About  ten,  Jane  felt  in  a  petticoat  pocket 
for  a  voluminous  handkerchief,  and  mopped 
up  her  tears  in  a  final,  business-like  manner; 


I04  BASSET 

and  the  Doctor,  still  chuckling,  replaced 
"  Pickwick "  on  a  shelf.  If  it  was  cold 
weather,  j\Irs.  Benet  concocted  a  modest 
night-cap  of  mulled  port.  Over  it,  the  pair 
talked  a  little,  or  understood  each  other  with- 
out talking. 

That  they  w^ere  childless,  having  greatly 
wished  for  children,  had  drawn  them  the 
closer.  The  few  relatives  either  had  left  in 
the  world  were  so  far  away  that,  even  if  the 
Doctor  could  have  spared  the  time,  he  could 
not  have  afforded  the  money  to  visit  them. 
So  they  had  only  each  other — and  Basset. 

In  the  village  there  was  not  a  single  soul 
who  was  not  Dr.  Richard's  patient;  and  all 
his  patients  w^ere,  in  greater  or  less  degree, 
his  friends.  His  life  had  begun  among  them, 
and  would  end  there;  his  wife's  life  was 
merged  in  his  comj^letely,  and  she  was,  in  the 
strictest  sense,  the  helpmeet  for  him. 

Sometimes,  as  the  pleasant  fire — economi- 
cally made  uip  by  JNIrs.  Benet  to  last  the  right 
time  but  no  longer — flickered  to  its  close, 
the  Doctor  would  lean  forward  to  her  chair 
and  affectionately  pat  one  of  those  stout, 
work-worn  hands,  wliich  had  done  so  much 
for  him.  There  were  no  heads  in  Basset 
w^hich  rested  easier  on  their  pillows  than  those 


DR.  RICHARD  105 

two  old  heads  in  the  night-caps,  in  the  great 
four-poster  with  the  faded  red  curtains,  in  the 
Doctor's  house. 

Their  just  slumbers  were  comparatively 
seldom  disturbed  by  the  ringing  of  the  night 
bell.  When  they  were,  Mrs.  Benet,  not  a 
little  annoj^ed  at  the  want  of  consideration  of 
persons  who  elected  to  die  or  be  born  at  hours 
so  inconvenient,  herself  rose  and,  if  need 
were,  roused  George  to  get  ready  the  gig, 
and  protected  her  husband  with  wraps  against 
that  night  air,  which  the  profession  and  the 
laity  of  the  day  alike  held  to  be  so  fruitful 
a  source  of  disease.  In  the  Doctor's  ab- 
sence, Jane,  since  she  could  do  no  good, 
snoozed  sensibly;  but  she  was  always  awake 
with  that  universal  panacea  for  all  trials  and 
inconveniences,  a  hot  cup  of  tea,  when  he 
came  back. 

Did  he  say  anything  to  her  of  his  profes- 
sional experiences?  Who  knows?  She  was 
certainly  either  the  wise  woman  who  could 
hold  her  tongue;  or  the  wiser  and  rarer 
woman  who  did  not  even  try  to  loosen  his. 

Quiet  as  Basset  certainly  was,  people  so 
well  known  as  Dr.  Richard  and  his  wife  could 
not  be  suffered  to  spend  all  their  leisure  at 
their  own  fireside. 


io6  BASSET 

Sometimes  they  passed  a  blameless  even^ 
ing — tea,  muffins,  and  sixpenny  whist — at 
]Miss  Pilkington's.  It  must  be  confessed  that 
this  entertainment  sadly  bored  the  Doctor; 
Jane,  woman-like,  was  not  ill-pleased  to  hear  a 
little  gossip,  and  put  on  her  silk  dress — every 
woman  then,  whether  she  siller  had  to  spare 
or  not,  walked  in  silk  attire  on  festal  occa- 
sions. Jane  Benet's  brown  silk  was  of  im- 
memorial antiquity;  and  in  mid-career  had 
received  a  sad  check  in  the  shape  of  a  tureen 
of  melted  butter  being  spilt  down  its  front 
breadth,  at  a  dinner-party  in  Dilchester,  by  a 
coachman  masquerading  for  the  evening  as  a 
butler.  Mrs.  Benet,  having  tried  ineffectu- 
ally to  match  the  silk,  and  with  all  known 
household  remedies  to  remove  the  stain,  at 
last  philosophically  resolved  always  to  keep 
her  large  arm — finished  at  the  wrist  with 
a  white  one-buttoned  glove,  and  ornamented 
with  a  bracelet  made  out  of  an  aunt's 
hair — in  a  position  to  hide  the  damaged 
part. 

The  Doctor,  who  had  said  "  Very  hand- 
some, Jeannie,  very  handsome,"  when  he  first 
saw  the  dress,  continued  to  say  so  and  think 
so  every  time  it  appeared.  Therefore,  with 
its  skirt  well  turned  up  over  a  most  respect- 


DR.  RICHARD  107 

able  petticoat,  her  evening  cap  in  a  box  in 
her  hand,  and  the  Doctor  by  her  side,  carry- 
ing a  lanthorn  and  her  large  pair  of  satin 
slippers,  Jane  walked  out  to  dine  in  it  with 
the  Latimers,  without  a  qualm.  And  what 
was  good  enough  for  the  Doctor  and  the 
Squire,  must  surely  be  good  enough  for  any- 
body. 

One  autumn  morning,  Mrs.  Benet,  having 
occasion  to  buy  some  honey  at  a  distant  cot- 
tage, was  surprised  to  perceive  on  her  home- 
ward way  the  only  house  in  Basset  which  was 
let  in  lodgings,  undergoing  a  very  unusual 
cleaning  and  repairing. 

jNIrs.  Whittaker,  the  landlady,  was  a  person 
so  perfectly  pleasant  and  slatternly  that  Mrs, 
Benet  always  felt  strongly  inclined  to  tell 
her  what  she  thought  of  her.  Her  husband, 
however,  had  warned  her,  when  she  was 
taken  with  such  an  inclination  with  regard 
to  any  of  his  patients,  to  come  away  at  once; 
so  she  returned  to  him  with  no  further  in- 
formation than  that  Mrs.  Whittaker  had  evi- 
dently let  her  rooms  to  somebody.  Once, 
they  had  been  briefly  inhabited  by  Phillips, 
Harry  Latimer's  agent,  before  he  found  a 
house;  and  Peter  Grant  had  stayed  there, 
waiting    for    the    surviving    Pilkingtons    to 


io8  BASSET 

abandon  the  Rectory.     But  who  could  pos- 
sibly want  to  lodge  in  Basset  now? 

The  next  morning,  Dr.  Richard  was  called 
out  early  to  one  of  the  farms  on  the  hill. 
That  daughter  of  Eve,  his  wife,  suggested  he 
should  "  just  walk  round "  by  INIrs.  Whit- 
taker's  on  his  way  back.  The  old  Doctor's 
eye  twinkled  a  little,  but  he  was  not  without 
a  mild  curiosity  on  his  own  account.  Hav- 
ing paid  his  visit,  he  returned  vici  JNIrs.  Whit- 
taker's.  And,  behold,  the  autumn  garden  had 
been  trimmed  and  tidied;  there  was  a  clean 
blind  and  a  new  geranium  in  the  window; 
and  on  the  low  door,  a  modest  brass  plate, 
highly  polished,  with  the  new,  clear  inscrip- 
tion: Dr.  ]Mark  Spencer,  Physician  and 
Surgeon. 


CHAPTER  V 

DR.    MARK 

Dr.  JMark  Spencer  was  at  this  time  about 
four  and  thirty  years  old;  very  thin  and  tall, 
with  dark  eyes  having  an  intent,  alert  look; 
lithe  and  quick  of  movement;  slow  to  speak, 
and  rapid  to  decide  and  act;  the  stuff  of 
which  doers  and  not  thinkers  are  made;  too 
clever  to  despise  the  cleverness  of  others,  but 
himself  too  clever  not  to  see  their  foolishness, 
and  too  self-confident  not  to  condemn  it. 

When  he  smiled,  the  smile  showed  a  face, 
habitually  grave,  to  be  full  of  humour  and 
sympathy,  and  there  was  generally  a  twinkle 
at  the  back  of  those  serious  eyes;  while  the 
mouth  betrayed  more  sensitiveness  than  is  a 
comfortable  possession  in  a  harsh  world. 

Spencer  had  overworked  in  his  profession 
in  London,  and  had  prudently  exiled  himself 
to  Basset  for  a  few  years,  to  rest  and  recover. 
Basset  had  been  chosen  as  being  near — but 
not    too    near — to    a    parson    friend    in    Dil- 

109 


no  BASSET 

Chester,  and  for  its  own  unquestionable  merits 
of  peace  and  quietness. 

Simj)ly  with  the  idea  of  keeping  liis  hand 
in  with  a  few  stray  patients,  Spencer  had  put 
up  the  plate  on  his  door.  He,  of  course, 
concluded  Basset  was  doctored  by  somebody  j 
and  also  concluded — not  veiy  unfairly,  con- 
sidering the  low  standard  attained  by  the 
country  practitioner  of  the  day — that  the 
somebody  would  certainly  be  ignorant,  and 
probably  intemperate.  The  few  patients  Dr. 
]Mark  might  filch  from  liim  would  be  no  loss, 
thinks  Dr.  Mark;  nay,  it  seemed  likely  there 
was  room,  if  not  m  Basset,  round  Basset,  for 
a  couple  of  medical  men  without  their  getting 
greatly  in  each  other's  way.  If  there  w^as  not 
room,  why,  the  more  time  for  rest,  country 
air,  and  those  medical  experiments  and  re- 
searches w^hich  were  the  absorption  of  his 
life. 

To  say  that  Spencer  was  ambitious  in  his 
profession  would  scarcely  be  true;  for  though 
he  was  of  the  character  of  which  successful 
men  are  made,  he  at  all  times  put  the  work 
above  the  wages.  He  saw,  in  fact,  in  the 
darkness  which  might  be  felt,  of  the  medical 
science  of  the  day,  a  great  dawn  faintly  show- 
ing.     What    that    daw^n    would    reveal,    he 


DR.  MARK  III 

guessed  but  dimly,  but  at  least  something 
better  than  most  of  his  professional  brethren, 
and  strained  every  nerve  to  hasten  the  com- 
ing of  the  light. 

When  the  first  shock  of  discovering  him 
was  over,  old  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Benet — Mrs. 
Benet  especially — may  be  said  to  have  re- 
garded him  much  as  a  passenger  on  a  stage- 
coach, who  had  reserved  and  obtained  his 
seat,  may  have  regarded  the  person  who  came 
running  up  at  the  last  moment  to  find  all 
the  places  occupied — the  seated  passenger's 
sensation  being  one  of  a  comfortable  triumph, 
slightly  mingled  with  a  fear  that  the  guard 
might  be  bribed  to  let  the  late  comer  mount 
after  all  and  crowd  them  unpleasantly. 

The  first  week  or  two  of  his  stay,  Mrs. 
Benet  was  always  happening  to  pass  by 
Myrtle  Cottage,  and  seeing  Spencer's  dark 
head,  by  the  geranium  in  the  window,  bent 
over  a  book  or  what  she  described  as  "  some 
of  your  nasty  doctor's  stuflPs  "  in  a  zinc  tray. 
Then  she  happened  to  hear  of  the  philosophic 
young  man's  entire  indifference  to  ]\Irs. 
Whittaker's  lamentable  cooking;  and,  some- 
how or  other,  obtained  the  certain  and  inti- 
mate knowledge  that  far  from  being  dis- 
turbed by  his  landladj^'s  lazy  ways  he  calmly 


112  BASSET 

blew  the  dust  off  his  mantelpiece  or  flicked 
it  from  his  writing-table  with  his  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

Old  Benet  used  to  laugh  when  his  Jeannie 
brought  him  these  stories  and  suggested 
that  Spencer's  tolerance  of  dust  was  his  own 
affair,  and  that  if  his  ways  displeased  Mrs. 
Benet  it  would  be  better  if  she  happened  to 
jDass  INIyrtle  Cottage  less  often.  INIrs.  Benet 
was  not  f)leased  with  her  good-man  for  mak- 
ing these  stupid,  sensible  observations.  She 
was  naturally  a  thousand  times  more  jealous 
for  him  than  he  could  be  for  himself,  and 
perhaps,  too,  with  her  quick,  sound,  unrea- 
sonable feminine  intuition,  she  scented  dan- 
gers for  Dr.  Richard  from  Spencer's  advent 
which  Dr.  Richard's  wisdom  did  not  foresee 
for  himself. 

As  for  Spencer — beyond  fervently  hoping 
that  none  of  them  would  call  upon  him,  un- 
less professionally,  he  was  at  first  entirely 
oblivious  of  his  neighbours.  Then,  one  day, 
starting  out  for  a  walk,  he  saw  Dr.  Richard 
hoisting  his  stout,  short  person  into  his  gig, 
and  Xeck-or-Xothing  slumbering  tranquilly, 
as  usual;  and  the  sight  amused  him  a  little. 
Presently,  his  landlady  having  informed  him 
of  the  identity  of  ]Mrs.  Benet,  he  encountered 


DR.  MARK  113 

the  offended  curiosity  of  her  look,  as,  in  a 
pair  of  clogs  and  very  short  skirts  revealing 
thick,  white-stockinged  ankles,  she  made  her 
way  through  the  village  mud — and  was 
amused  the  more. 

In  church,  on  the  first  Sunday  he  attended 
service,  when  he  sat  just  in  front  of  the 
Benets,  he  declared  afterwards  he  could  feel 
the  persistent  hostility  of  Jane  Benet's  eye 
in  the  small  of  his  back.  From  his  position 
he  could  see  through  the  open  door,  and 
presently,  up  the  churchyard,  where  the  first 
gusty  wind  of  early  autumn  was  blowing  the 
leaves  hither  and  thither,  came  Pollie  Lati- 
mer, with  the  deep  beaver  bonnet  shading  a 
face  which  Dr.  JNIark  did  not  find  beautiful, 
but  caught  himself  wishing  to  catch  sight  of 
again. 

To  be  sure,  at  that  date  there  was  no  rea- 
son for  Jane  Benet's  enmity;  Spencer  had  not 
a  single  patient. 

It  was,  indeed,  the  very  next  day  that  he 
began  to  practise  in  Basset — on  the  wife  of  a 
small  tradesman  from  Dilchester,  who  had 
just  taken  a  house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  vil- 
lage, and  had  never,  since  he  arrived,  had  a 
doctor  at  all.  The  wife  was  ill  of  some  simple 
malady,    which    Spencer    easily    cured.      But 


114  BASSET 

the  cure  gained  him  more  credit  than  it  de- 
served, for  if  the  malady  had  been  simple, 
it  had  not  been  too  simple  for  that  pompous 
old  ass.  Dr.  Clarke  of  Dilchester,  to  have 
mistaken  and  mistreated.  Of  course,  in  a 
small  place — the  smaller  the  place  the  greater 
the  gossip  is  an  invariable  rule — in  a  couple 
of  hours  after  Dr.  Mark  had  paid  that  first 
professional  call,  it  was  a  matter  of  common 
knowledge. 

The  tradesman  never  having  been  his  pa- 
tient. Dr.  Benet  could  afford  to  be,  and  was, 
perfectly   equable. 

On  the  morrow,  ISIiss  Fitten's  one  appren- 
tice ran  a  broken  needle  deep  into  her  hand, 
and,  as  Spencer's  house  Mas  next  door  to  ^Nliss 
Fitten's,  came  to  him  to  have  it  extracted. 

A  little  later,  the  tradesman's  wife  ha^^ng 
said  many  good  and  grateful  things  of  Dr. 
Mark  to  her  neighbour,  a  gouty  old  farmer, 
the  farmer  sulkily  observed  that  he  had  been 
pajdng  the  "old  boy "  for  nothing  for  a 
score  of  months,  and  sent  for  Spencer.  The 
young  man  studied  the  new  patient  out  of 
those  quick,  black  eyes  of  his;  did  not  say 
much,  but  looked  as  if  he  knew  much  more 
than  he  said;  and  suggested  a  remedy  or 
two,  diflterent  to  any  the  "  old  boy  "  had  pro- 


DR.  MARK  115 

posed.  The  new  remedies  certainly  did  not 
remove  the  gout,  but  they  rendered  it  "so 
tame  }^ou  could  stroke  it,"  and  the  old  farmer 
expressed  an  opinion  that  the  young  man  was 
a  darned  sight  less  stoopid  than  the  old, 
though  he  hadn't  nothing  to  say  against  Dr. 
Benet — having,  in  point  of  fact,  said  the 
worst. 

On  one  of  his  visits  to  the  farmer.  Dr. 
Mark  met  Peter  Grant,  who  had  come,  not 
to  minister  sj^iritually  to  the  sick,  but  to  buy 
from  him  a  sitting  of  duck's  eggs.  Doctor 
and  parson  liked  each  other  from  the  first — 
they  both  said  so  little.  They  left  the  farm  to- 
gether— S23encer's  lithe,  energetic  steps  slow- 
ing down  to  suit  Peter's  heavy,  rheumatic 
tread — and  walked  through  Basset,  laying 
the  foundations  of  a  long,  silent,  satisfactory 
friendship. 

Is  it  necessary  to  say  that  Mrs.  Benet 
happened  to  be  looking  out  of  her  best  par- 
lour window  when  they  passed?  or  that,  hav- 
ing warmed  and  fed  her  man  when  he  came 
back  that  afternoon,  she  told  him  what  she 
had  seen?  She  added  that,  with  the  defec- 
tion of  that  wicked,  drinking  old  Farmer 
Finch,  she  did  not  like  the  look  of  things  at 
all.     Dr.  Richard  was  much  more  concerned 


ii6  BASSET 

that  Jeannie's  comfortable  fat  face  looked 
positively  distressed  and  drawn,  than  with  her 
gloomy  prognostications.  He  said  calmly 
that  Farmer  Finch  was  a  cantankerous  per- 
son, but  that  since  he,  Benet,  had  done  all  he 
could,  it  was  not  unnatural  Finch  should  try 
some  one  else;  that  anyhow,  Jeannie,  Finch 
isn't  a  great  loss.  As  for  the  Parson,  he 
never  saw  any  doctor  professionally,  but  he 
had  evidently  done  his  duty,  and  called  on 
Spencer,  a  duty  which  Dr.  Benet  j)roposed  to 
fulfil  himself  to-morrow  afternoon. 

Jeannie  took  up  her  novel  with  a  hand 
which  was  not  perfectly  steady;  her  Doctor 
had  a  pinch  or  two  of  snuff,  and  resumed 
his  Dickens;  and  when  they  spoke  again  it 
was  of  something  else. 

All  the  young  peo2:)le  in  Basset  Dr.  Richard 
had  brought  into  the  world;  and  had  eased 
the  journey  out  of  it  for  the  grandsires  of 
most  of  them.  He  was  confident  of  his 
patients'  fidelity  and  affection;  but  perhaps, 
as  jMadam  was  so  mistrustful,  he  appeared 
a  little  more  confident  than  he  actually  was. 

He  called  on  his  rival  the  next  da}\ 

The  two  men  did  not  dislike  each  other. 
Nay,  there  was  much  softness  and  kindliness 
in   Spencer's  eyes   as  he  looked  at   his  little 


DR.  MARK  117 

fat,  wheezy,  good-natured  guest;  while  Dr. 
Richard's  heart  was  sorry  for  the  younger 
man's  lonehness — for  a  hfe  which  seemed  to 
have  been  all  work,  and  to  have  had  no  time 
for  those  comfortable  domestic  affections 
which  had  made  the  best  part  of  old  Benet's 
own  existence.  It  was  when  they  drifted  on 
to  professional  topics  that  the  gulf  between 
them  yawned  wide.  Dr.  Richard  talked  a 
good  deal,  and  it  was  Dr.  Mark's  opinion — a 
positive,  youthful  opinion,  generally,  but  not 
always,  right — that  your  talker  can  by  no 
means  be  thinker  too,  and  is  inevitably  slight 
and  shallow.  Dr.  Benet's  talk,  of  course,  re- 
vealed him  to  be  of  the  old  school;  following, 
not  blindly,  but  following  in  the  steps  of 
medical  forebears,  with  eyes  getting  just  a 
little  too  dim  to  descry  that  dawn  to  which 
Dr.  INIark  pressed  forward,  eager  and  certain. 
Spencer  sat  back  in  his  rickety  old  writing- 
chair,  balanced  it  precariously  on  its  back 
legs,  and  looked  straight  past  Richard  Benet's 
head  to  the  dingy  wall,  almost  as  if  he  saw 
written  on  it  the  message  to  Darius  of  old. 
He  said  very  little.  But  old  Benet  found, 
when  it  was  time  to  go,  there  was  a  very 
strong  impression  left  on  his  mind  that  this 
new   young   gentleman   considered    those   fa- 


ii8  BASSET 

miliar  epidemics  of  typhus  and  cholera  to  be 
man's  fault  rather  than  God's  will;  that,  if  he 
would  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  with  Macbeth, 
"  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs,  I'll  none  of  it," 
all  the  same,  the  numerous  draughts,  powders, 
pills,  without  which  Dr.  Benet's  patients 
would  have  had  no  satisfaction  in  being  ill, 
were  not  only  generally  unnecessary,  but 
sometimes  actually  harmful. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  was  inevitable  that, 
though  ]Mark  looked  at  Kichard  with  that 
strong  sympathy  which  was  liis  charm  as  well 
as  his  strength  and  weakness,  he  looked  upon 
him  as  deplorably — shall  one  say? — stick-in- 
the-mud  and  old-fashioned. 

Dr.  Richard  puffed  slowly  homewards, 
rather  liking  his  rival,  thinking,  despite  him- 
self, highly  of  his  cleverness,  shaking  his  good 
grey  head  over  the  exceedingly  daring  revo- 
lutionary ideas  in  that  young  black  one,  and 
for  the  first  time  realizing  that  Dr.  31  ark  was 
a  rival  indeed. 

The  rivalry,  as  well  as  the  revolutionary 
nature  of  those  ideas,  received  ample  con- 
firmation as  the  weeks  went  on. 

To-day,  it  was  some  small  accident  to 
which  Spencer  was  summoned  hurriedly;  and 
the    family    of    the    accident    found    him    so 


DR.  MARK  119 

much  quicker  and  handier  with  his  long,  thin, 
supple  fingers,  than  Dr.  Benet,'  that  it  de- 
cided unanimously,  to  keep  him. 

Next,  a  young  lady  from  town,  who  had 
heard  there  of  Dr.  Spencer's  growing  reputa- 
tion, developed  measles  when  she  was  visit- 
ing the  august  home  of  Sir  Thomas  and 
Lady  Mainwaring.  Knowing  of  Dr.  Spen- 
cer's neighbourhood,  she  naturally  asked  if  he 
might  attend  her.  My  lady's  verdict  of  him 
was  that  Dr.  Spencer  was  much  more  of  a 
gentleman,  as  well  as  a  better  doctor,  than 
the  little  Basset  apothecary,  and  that  in  fu- 
ture, Thomas,  we  will  employ  him  ourselves. 
When  Sir  Thomas,  who  had  grown  fond  of 
old  Benet,  suggested  that  it  was  awkward  to 
change  j^our  doctor,  my  lady  inquired  curtly 
why,  pray,  you  should  not  change  your  doc- 
tor as  much  as  your  butcher? — and  the  matter 
was    settled. 

Old  Finch  called  in  young  Spencer  again 
and  again.  "  You  do  do  better  for  me  than 
the  old  boy,"  says  candid  Finch.  Mark  an- 
swered that  his  treatment  of  the  case  was  not 
materially  different  to  his  predecessor's. 

"  I  know  as  you  doctors  have  to  say  that," 
answers  the  farmer,  winking  a  blood-shot  eye 
very  slowly;  "pretend  the  first  man's  done 


120  BASSET 

right;  and  do  something  different  j^ourself 
all  the  time.     I  knows  you." 

Spencer  laughed.  "  All  the  same,  Dr. 
Benet  treated  you  very  well,"  says  he. 

The  number  of  notes  ]\Iark  had  had  to 
write  lately  to  old  Richard,  telling  him  he  had 
been  called  in  to  another,  and  yet  another, 
of  the  old  man's  patients,  did  not  lie  easily  on 
jNIark's  soul.  He  had  by  no  means  come  to 
Basset  to  ruin  a  fellow-worker.  He  did  not 
particularly  want  money.  Still,  he  liked  the 
experience — the  work  for  the  work's  sake — 
and,  as  his  health  was  improving,  was  not 
inclined  to  reject  it.  Sometimes,  the  interest 
of  the  thing  absorbed  him,  and  he  forgot  old 
Benet  wholly.  When  he  remembered,  short 
of  taking  down  his  plate  and  leaving  Basset, 
he  did  not  see  what  he  could  do.  The  fight 
was  fair  enough;  and  provided  it  was  fair, 
Spencer  liked  a  fight,  and  had  always  found 
difficulties  in  the  wa}"  add  zest  to  the  chase. 
He  was  sorry  for  the  old  man;  Dr.  ]Mark 
having,  indeed,  that  last  infirmity  of  noble 
minds,  an  inconveniently  soft  heart.  But, 
after  all,  he  did  think  him  something  of  a 
muff,  and  probably  pigheaded,  as  only  igno- 
rance can  be. 

At  any  rate,  he  could  not  accuse  himself 


DR.  MARK  121 

of  having  kept  the  patients  he  had  made  by 
speaking  smooth  things  to  them,  or  yielding 
to  their  prejudices. 

In  that  age  of  hermetically  shut  windows, 
Spencer  had  plainly  proclaimed  himself,  in  as 
few  words  as  possible,  the  friend  of  fresh  air. 
He  informed  not  a  few  of  the  cottagers  who 
came  for  his  advice  in  the  mornings  before 
he  started  off  on  his  rounds,  that  half  their 
diseases  came  from  dirt,  and  the  other  half 
from  drink;  and  made  them  pay  for  the  in- 
formation. For,  if  he  was  in  advance  of  old 
Benet  in  his  ideas  on  medicine,  so  he  was  in 
his  ideas  on  philanthropy.  What  one  can  get 
for  nothing,  one  is  apt  to  consider  nothing 
worth.  So  Spencer  insisted  on  the  produc- 
tion of  a  modest — a  verj^  modest — fee  before 
he  looked  at  the  sufferer's  tongue,  and  felt 
his  pulse.  If  that  fee  by  no  means  covered 
the  expensive  medicine  the  disorders  some- 
times required,  or  compensated  Dr.  Mark  for 
the  care,  candour,  time  and  trouble  he  ex- 
pended— well,  that  was  so  much  the  better  for 
his  soul,  while  the  patients'  self-respect  was 
left  uninjured. 

Harry  Latimer  called,  tardily,  on  the  new 
man  one  afternoon,  and  brought  him  an  invi- 
tation from  Pollie  to  dine  at  the  Manor. 


122  BASSET 

The  Latimers  had  not  any  idea  of  giving 
up  old  Benet  as  their  medical  adviser,  a  fact 
of  which  Spencer  was  heartily  glad.  There 
was  no  reason  he  should  not  dine  with  them; 
he  only  wished  he  had  been  able  to  think  of  a 
reason,  or  at  least  of  an  excuse  which  sounded 
like  one.  He  hated  wasting  an  evening  in 
festivity;  and  he  did  not  particularly  like 
Harry.  The  "  old  squires,  full  of  foolish 
opinions  and  fermented  liquors,"  were  a  class 
among  his  new  patients  whom  ^Nlark  despised 
with  the  fervour  of  an  energetic  and  self- 
denying  temperament;  while  he  believed, 
like  the  pioneer  he  was,  that  from  indul- 
gence in  the  liquors — far  short  of  drunken- 
ness— came  the  foolishness  of  the  opinions, 
and  much  deterioration  of  body  and  char- 
acter. 

Harry  was  not  old,  and  he  was  not  foolish. 
But  he  was  idle,  jolly,  easy,  self-indulgent; 
the  type  of  man  for  whom  Parson  Grant  and 
Dr.  Benet  could  feel,  and  did  feel,  much  lik- 
ing; but  who  was  inevitably  antagonistic  to 
Mark.  It  was  on  his  lips  to  refuse  to  go — 
without  any  excuse.  Then  he  remembered 
Pollie's  face  as  she  had  come  into  church — 
that  charming  face,  at  once  gay  and  thought- 
ful, with  some  faint  shadow  across  its  j^outh — 


DR.  MARK  123 

■^vondered  why  she  had  married  Harry,  and 
thought  he  would  go  and  see. 

Harry  was  riding,  and  Spencer  came  to 
the  gate  with  him  while  he  mounted  Victoria. 

Dislike  being  nearly  always  mutual,  Harry 
had  not  been  drawn  to  the  "  new  man."  He 
reined  up  when  he  met  old  Benet  presently, 
and  inquired  good-naturedly  if  "  young  Saw- 
bones there  "  was  doing  him  much  mischief? 
Dr.  Benet,  knowing  that  to  advertise  failure 
is  to  spread  it,  answered  that  he  thought  not 
— competition  was  healthy,  plenty  of  room 
for  two;  the  usual  formulas.  But  it  was  with 
his  grey  head  very  bent,  and  old  ej^es  not  a 
little  dull  and  sad,  that  he  turned  into  his 
house,  where  Jeannie  was  on  the  doorstep, 
agitatedly  agog  to  know  if  the  Squire  had 
been  to  see  that  man  professionally? 

Spencer  looked  out  from  an  exceedingly 
tumbled  wardrobe  his  only  brocaded  evening 
waistcoat;  on  the  evening  appointed,  dined 
at  the  Manor;  sat  next  to  an  arch,  coy, 
simpering,  middle-aged  girl,  who  quickly 
bored  him  into  a  gloomy  silence.  At  dinner, 
he  caught  himself  watching  Mrs.  Latimer 
attentively  as  she  sat  at  the  head  of  her 
table,  lively  and  talking,  but  quite  simply 
interested  in  and  proud  of  her  shining  dinner- 


124  BASSET 

party  damask  and  china.  Once,  at  dessert, 
he  observed  the  glance  of  tolerant  affection 
slie  gave  to  Harry,  with  his  good-looking  face 
reddening  comfortabh^  over  the  port;  and 
into  Dr.  ^Mark's  mind  flashed  the  phrase  of 
the  French  philosopher,  "  On  a  tant  d'indul- 
gence  quand  on  n'a  plus  d'amour!  " 

Spencer  did  not  make  himself  more  popu- 
lar with  his  host  after  dinner  by  declining 
to  refill  his  glass  as  the  great  cut-glass  de- 
canters went  their  frequent  rounds.  Harry — 
and  many  another  besides  Harry  in  that  day 
— measured  a  man's  manliness  bj^  the  depth  of 
his  potations.  And  the  Squire  was  some- 
thing annoyed  that  to  this  abstemious  and 
silent  person — lithe,  active,  determined — it 
was  wholh"  impossible  to  ajjply  the  epithet  of 
milksoj). 

After  Spencer  had  counted  out,  with  Mrs. 
Latimer,  the  counters  for  a  game  of  Pope 
Joan,  he  returned  home  as  soon  as  might  be. 

He  had  walked  the  Paris  hospitals,  and 
was  studj^ing  now — he  was  very  likely  the 
onl}^  English  medical  man  of  his  day  who  did 
so — the  works  of  the  great  French  doctors, 
Tissot,  Tronchin,  Cabanis.  His  profession 
had  been  always  his  only  mistress — almost 
his  only  friend — all-engrossing  and  sufficient. 


DR.  MARK  125 

But  this  evening  his  thoughts  wandered.  He 
pushed  aside  Cabanis'  "  Rapports  du  Phy- 
sique et  du  INIoral  de  rHomme,"  and  looked 
round  the  room;  and  it  struck  him  for  the 
first  time  as  untidy  and  comfortless. 

Then,  with  a  frown  at  his  own  inattention, 
he  resumed  his  book. 

It  was  not  long  after  the  Manor  dinner- 
party that  Spencer  bought  himself  a  horse; 
his  practice  having  increased  so  fast  that  it 
was  impossible  to  keep  pace  with  it  on  foot. 
After  that,  because  nothing  succeeds  like 
success,  it  increased  further  still. 

It  was  not,  of  course,  that  old  Dr.  Benet 
had  no  patients;  he  still  had  some,  where  but 
a  few  months  ago  he  had  had  all.  A  good 
many  of  the  poor,  feeling  that  the  doctoring 
was  better  when  you  paid  for  it,  but  not 
being  able  to  pay,  returned  to  their  first  love. 
There  were  both  farms  and  manors  round 
Basset  which  had  never  made  any  change. 
INIost  of  Dr.  Benet's  Dilchester  patients  were 
faithful;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  a  good  many 
of  Dr.  Clarke's  of  Dilchester  had  gone  over 
to  Silencer  of  Basset,  who  was  less  handy, 
but,  when  you  got  him,  less  dangerous.  Con- 
servative Miss  Pilkington — the  Pilkingi:on 
family  having  been  ushered  in  and  out  of  the 


126  BASSET 

world  by  a  Benet  these  last  seventy  years — 
would  rather  have  died  than  have  been  doc- 
tored by  any  one  else.  But  that  was  some- 
thing less  to  her  credit,  because  she  felt  sure 
she  would  die  most  certainly  if  she  exposed 
herself  to  the  tricks  of  a  young  gentle- 
man who,  in  her  own  phrase,  "  believed  in 
draughts,"  meaning  ventilation,  and  disbe- 
lieved in  them,  meaning  the  row  of  great 
bottles  on  the  mantelpiece. 

In  church  now,  if  looks  could  kill.  Dr. 
^lark  would  have  been  stabbed  (in  the  back) 
many  a  time.  If  he  was  sorry  for  her  hus- 
band, ^Irs.  Benet  he  regarded  simply  as  an 
angry,  ugly,  old  woman,  who  decidedly 
tickled  his  sense  of  humour. 

Spencer  had  come  to  Basset  in  early 
autumn. 

The  winter  was  unhealthy  but  hardly 
more  unhealthy  than  usual.  March  brought 
a  spell  of  bitter  weather,  and  an  epidemic  of 
influenza  so  virulent  and  widespread  that  even 
Dr.  Benet,  with  his  lessening  practice,  was 
busy,  and  his  young  rival,  far  from  finding 
Basset  a  rest  cure,  had  scarcely  time  to  eat  or 
sleep.  In  the  midst  of  it,  Tommy  Latimer, 
who  had  been  thrown  by  his  jjonj^  half  a 
dozen  times  and  picked  himself  up  again  as 


DR.  MARK  127 

uninjured  as  an  indiarubber  ball,  elected  to 
be  thrown  once  more;  j)icked  himself  up, 
swallowing  unmanly  sobs,  and  complained  of 
his  back.  Harry  was  agreeably  certain,  as 
usual,  it  was  a  trifle;  and,  thus  convinced, 
rode  off  to  keep  an  appointment  in  Dil- 
chester.  Pollie  sent  for  Dr.  Benet.  Dr. 
Benet,  having  carefully  examined  the  child, 
pronounced  the  injuries  slight.  Before  the 
afternoon,  Pollie  had  sent  for  him  again. 
The  child  looked  ill,  and  complained  of 
greater  pain. 

"  When  Harry  was  so  bad,"  says  Pollie, 
"  you  sent  for  Dr.  Clarke.  Only  now,  per- 
haps, you  might  have  Dr.  Spencer?  He  is 
so  near,  and  he  seems  to  be  so  much  cleverer 
than  Dr.  Clarke,  isn't  he?" 

Lies  stuck  in  old  Benet's  throat;  but  if 
an  honest  man  can  wish  he  was  a  liar — and, 
be  sure,  he  can — Dr.  Richard  wished  it  then. 

Spencer  was  sent  for,  and  came.  The  two 
men  examined  the  child  together.  Was  Dr. 
Mark  something  surprised,  and  ever  so  little 
disappointed,  that  he  had  to  concur  abso- 
lutely in  old  Benet's  diagnosis  of  the  case  as 
trivial?  If  he  was,  he  was  ashamed  of  the 
sensation  when  he  saw  the  relief  in  Pollie's 
eyes.     She  opened  the  hall  door  to  the  two 


128  BASSET 

men,  thanking  them;  and  they  walked  down 
the  drive  in  silence.  The  younger  man  was 
by  nature  too  shy  and  reserved  to  be  able  to 
bridge  over  a  difficulty  by  conversation;  be- 
sides, he  was  thinking  of  something  else;  and 
in  the  heart  of  the  old  one  was  a  great  bit- 
terness. 

When  he  got  home — it  was  nearly  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon — he  did  not  attempt 
to  minimize  to  his  wife,  as  he  had  persistently 
done  hitherto,  the  rise  in  his  rival's  and  the 
fall  in  his  own  fortunes.  Jeannie  followed 
him  into  the  dining-room.  It  was  snowing 
softly  outside,  and  the  room  looked  light, 
white,  and  cheerless. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  loss  of  money  old 
Richard  felt,  though  he  did  feel  that.  But  if 
they  were  poor,  there  was  that  very  little  in- 
dependent fortune  to  keep  them  from  want, 
and  Jeannie  was  a  manager  in  a  thousand. 
It  was  the  faithlessness  of  his  people  that 
lay  heavy  on  his  soul.  He  knew  he  had  al- 
ways done  his  best  for  them;  he  believed  that 
that  best  had  been,  in  the  main,  not  unsuc- 
cessful. With  not  a  few  of  them,  he  had  been 
down  into  those  deep  j)laces  of  intimate  con- 
fidence and  knowledge  into  which  in  sickness 
of  bodj^,  the  soul — willingl}"  or  unwillingly — 


DR.  MARK  129 

sometimes  takes  a  friend.  He  had  seen  many 
sores  and  secrets — of  the  heart;  and,  cheery 
old  talker  though  he  was,  never  a  hint  of  them 
had  passed  his  lips  or  looked  out  of  his  eyes. 
To  be  sure,  he  had  only  done  his  duty.  But 
the  duties  of  his  profession  exact  a  greater 
self-denial  and  a  higher  virtue  than  any  other. 
If  he  had  been  paid  only  by  the  affection  and 
fidelity  of  his  patients,  he  would  have  felt 
himself  well  paid.  And  behold!  after  forty 
years  spent  in  their  service,  in  six  months 
nearly  half  of  them  had  deserted  him. 

Jeannie  poured  out  a  sudden  tornado  of 
angry  words  against  the  deserters,  and  the 
character  and  conduct  of  Dr.  IMark.  Her  old 
man  looked  ill  and  sunken,  and  her  heart  was 
hot  within  her.  He  stretched  out  his  cold 
hand  to  pat  hers  in  the  accustomed  caress, 
and  said,  "  No,  no,  Jeannie,  Spencer  has 
always  acted  honourably." 

And  Jeannie,  who  cried  so  enjoy  ably  and 
profusely  over  sham  griefs  in  a  novel,  and 
would  have  despised  herself  for  ever  if  her 
doctor  had  caught  her  weeping  at  a  real 
trouble,  gave  a  sudden,  loud,  vindictive  sniff, 
and  retreated  to  the  kitchen  to  prepare  his 
dinner,  where,  since  "  there  is  no  seeing  one's 
way  through  tears,"  she  brushed  them  away 


130  BASSET 

with  the  back  of  her  hand,  and  tried  to  think 
of  a  dish  that  would  tempt  him. 

AVhen  jNlaggie  went  into  the  dining-room 
to  lay  the  cloth,  she  had  to  clear  her  throat 
loudly  three  times  before  the  Doctor — who 
was  sitting  w^ith  his  folded  arms  leaning  on 
the  table,  staring  at  the  drab  wall-paper  oppo- 
site— heard  the  hint  and  made  way  for  her. 

A  very  few  days  later,  when  the  snow  was 
thick  on  the  ground,  Dr.  Richard,  having  been 
called  out  very  early  in  the  morning,  did  not 
return  home  until  six  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
All  through  their  belated  dinner,  the  old  pair 
hardly  sj)oke;  and  Maggie  confided  to  the 
boy  from  the  shop,  who  had  knocked  at  the 
back  door  with  the  express  purpose  of  throw- 
ing a  snowball  at  her  when  she  opened  it,  that 
the  two  in  there  had  been  a-quarrelling.  Her 
sharp  young  eyes  were  rather  disappointed  to 
see  no  traces  of  a  fray  when  she  brought  in 
the  evening  tea.  While  Jeannie  was  brewing 
it,  the  old  doctor,  who  had  not  taken  his  book 
as  usual,  said — 

"  It  was  Spencer  I  was  called  to  this  morn- 
ing, Jeannie.    He's  down  with  the  influenza." 

]\Irs.  Benet  responded  by  a  snort,  which, 
if  ever  snort  said  anything,  said,  "  Serve  him 
right!"  and  went  on  with  her  tea-making. 


DR.  MARK  131 

"  I  went  to  see  him  again  this  evening," 
said  Dr.  Richard.  "  The  fact  is,  I  don't  like 
his  symptoms  at  all.  He's  a  delicate  man, 
and  he  has  been  very  much  out  of  health.  I 
don't  trust  Mrs.  Whittaker  to  look  after 
him — she's  a  deal  too  plausible — and  I  can't 
find  any  one  else.  That  old  woman,  Muggle- 
ton,  is  down  with  the  thing  herself." 

Mrs.  Benet  gave  the  Doctor  his  cup,  and 
sat  down  with  her  own;  and  was  understood 
to  remark  that,  as  Dr.  Spencer  was  so  mighty 
clever,  he  had  better  cure  himself. 

"  It  isn't  good  doctoring  he  wants,  Jean- 
nie,"  says  Richard,  "it's  good  nursing." 

Mrs.  Benet  replied,  "  Oh,  it's  nursing,  is 
it?  "  very  snappishly,  and  there  was  a  long 
pause.  Then  she  gave  the  Doctor  his  second 
cup,  and  with  it  the  new  Edinburgh,  just 
come  from  the  Dilchester  Book  Club.  But 
he  put  the  volume  on  one  side. 

"  I  am  not  easy  about  him,  Jeannie,  and 
that's  the  fact.  Ask  Maggie  for  my  boots, 
and  I'll  go  round  and  sit  with  him  for  an 
hour,  and  see  if  that  woman  has  done  what 
I  told  her." 

Then  Jeannie  rose  in  her  ire. 

"  You're  cold  and  tired,  and  you  haven't 
eaten  any  dinner,"   she  said.     "  And  you're 


132  BASSET 

sixty-eight  years  old,  and  he's  done  you  a  lot 
of  harm,  and  you  shan't  go  and  kill  yourself 
for  him.  You  sit  still  where  you  are  and 
drink  that  tea,  and  I'll  manage  liim." 

If  she  had  substituted  "  murder "  for 
"  manage,"  she  could  not  have  uttered  it  more 
bloodthirstily.  Dr.  Richard  had  not  felt  like 
laughing  for  many  a  day,  but  he  did  smile  to 
himself  then. 

]Mrs.  Benet  was  out  of  the  room  about 
twenty  minutes.  When  she  returned,  she 
had  put  on  her  clogs,  girded  up  her  skirts, 
pinned  on  a  stout  plaid  shawl  with  a  brooch, 
hung  a  strong  basket  on  her  arm,  and  was  in 
the  act  of  tying  her  bonnet  strings  in  a  large, 
fierce  bow. 

Dr.  Richard  looked  up  from  the  Edinburgh 
which  he  was  pretending  to  read,  and  said, 
"  Thank  you,  Jeannie." 

"  Now  mind,"  says  Jeannie,  still  consider- 
ably ruffled  in  temper,  "  if  I'm  not  back  by 
ten,  you're  to  lock  the  front  door,  and  not  to 
trust  it  to  ^Maggie.  And  if  I'm  not  home  to- 
morrow before  you're  up,  j^ou're  to  put  on 
the  new  flannel  shirt  I've  just  finished.  It's 
on  the  chair  by  the  bed.  They're  warmer 
before  they're  washed.  And,  mind,  j^ou're 
not  to  change  it  because  it  scratches.      It's 


DR.  MARK  133 

the  scratching  that  keeps  up  the  circula- 
tion." 

"  It  is,  Jeannie,"  says  old  Richard,  feel- 
ingly. If  the  shirt  had  been  of  hair,  he 
would  have  consented  to  wear  it. 

In  a  minute  he  added,  "  The  medicines  I've 
ordered  Spencer  are  on  the  mantelpiece,  and 
the  directions  on  the  bottles.  Keep  the  room 
warm,  and  keep  him  as  quiet  as  you  can.  I'll 
be  round  by  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 
He  gave  a  few  more  technical  instructions, 
and  Jeannie  listened  with  a  face  at  once 
hostile,  sensible,  and  attentive. 

Then  he  said  again,  "  Thank  you,  Jean- 
nie," and  felt  for  one  of  her  fat  old  hands 
under  her  shawl.  She  responded  by  giving 
him  a  sound  thump  on  his  shoulder.  She 
might  have  liked,  perhaps,  to  have  kissed 
him  on  the  top  of  his  untidj^  gi'ey  head,  but 
under  the  circumstances  would  have  felt  such 
a  caress  to  be  lowering  to  her  self-respect;  so 
she  contented  herself  with  the  thump  and  a 
look  at  him  which  said  many  contrary  things. 

In  the  passage,  she  added  a  stout  gingham 
umbrella  to  her  other  luggage  (for  it  was 
again  snowing  fast),  and  tramped  out  into 
the  cold  and  the  darkness. 

It   should    not   be   necessary   to    say   that 


134  BASSET 

]Mark  Spencer  had  not  summoned  Dr.  Rich- 
ard before  it  was  absolutely  essential.  Keenly 
interested  as  he  was  in  disease  as  disease,  he 
was  also  the  least  fanciful  of  human  beings 
regarding  his  own  maladies;  and  his  interest 
in  them  was  purely  impersonal,  which  is 
tantamount  to  saying  that  Heaven  had  ex- 
pressly designed  him  to  be  a  doctor.  His 
strong  confidence  in  his  star,  united  to  strong 
self-confidence,  always  made  him  sure,  when 
he  was  ill,  that  he  would  certainly  recover. 

But  on  this  occasion,  after  having  ig- 
nored his  symptoms  for  many  days — being, 
in  fact,  particularly  engrossed  with  the  symp- 
toms of  other  people — there  came  that  snowy 
morning  when  he  literally  could  not  get  up 
and  go  out  as  usual — even  if  Ms  medical 
knowledge  had  not  convinced  him,  in  spite 
of  himself,  of  the  madness  of  such  a  proceed- 
ing. Now,  too,  the  extreme  mental  depres- 
sion, w^hich  was  a  characteristic  of  the  in- 
fluenza of  that  day,  as  of  later  days,  over- 
whelmed him  like  a  thick  Cloud. 

He  had  passed  a  sleepless  and  feverish 
night.  In  the  cold  morning  light,  the  ill- 
furnished  and  disorderly  room  looked  barren 
and  miserable  exceedingly.  Dr.  Mark  saw 
clearly,  not  only  the  disadvantages  of  life — 


DR.  MARK  135 

that  view  can  be  taken  philosophically — but 
of  his  own  life.  The  obstacles  in  the  path  in 
which  he  was  resolved  to  tread  seemed  insur- 
mountable; he  was  alone,  and  no  man  cared 
for  his  soul. 

Thus  feeling,  when  Mrs.  Whittaker  brought 
him  a  cup  of  lukewarm  tea  instead  of  break- 
fast, and  said  pleasantly,  "Lor,  sir!  you  do 
look  bad.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  was 
one  of  them  as  goes  off  very  quick,"  and  he 
believed  her,  he  realized  it  was  time  to  send 
for  his  rival. 

An  old  woman  in  a  cottage  had  one  day 
candidly  told  Dr.  Mark  that  she  preferred 
Dr.  Richard;  he  was  "so  comfortable." 
Spencer  remembered  that  observation  when 
old  Benet  sank  wheezily  on  to  the  ricketty 
chair  by  the  bed,  and  looked  at  him  with  that 
steady  blue  eye,  which  seemed  to  say  reassur- 
ingly that  one's  sufferings  might  be  very  real 
without  being  very  serious.  If  there  were 
jealousy  and  bitterness  in  the  old  Doctor's 
soul,  they  were  certainly  not  in  his  manner. 
But  Spencer's  shrewdness  had  always  given 
his  rival  credit  for  being  worthy  and  kindly — 
in  fact,  a  good  old  woman. 

What  surprised  him  was  that,  after  a  very 
few  questions,   and  the  usual  formulas,   Dr. 


136  BASSET 

Benet  had  not  onl}'  discovered  old  scars, 
which  JNIark  believed  healing  nature  had  cov- 
ered or  effaced,  and  weaknesses  and  tenden- 
cies wdiich  it  must  needs  take  a  good  intelli- 
gence or  a  long  time  to  find  out,  but  that  he 
had  also  thoroughly  gauged  his  patient's  tem- 
j^erament,  and  if  he  did  not  know^  much  about 
the  sickness,  b}^  some  shrewd  intuition  cer- 
tainly did  know  the  sick  man. 

When  the  old  Doctor  recommended  reme- 
dies, contrary  to  all  the  young  one's  best 
theories,  Sj)encer  found  himself,  to  his  own 
surprise,  not  only  consenting  to  take  them, 
but  feebly  wondering  if  there  might  not  be 
some  good  in  them  after  all. 

The  two  spoke  together  for  a  few  minutes 
about  those  new^  patients  of  JSIark's,  w^ho  had 
once  been  Dr.  Richard's,  and  whom  Dr. 
Richard  must  needs  take  over  again  until 
his  rival  had  recovered;  and  it  was  not  Dr. 
Richard  who  found  the  subject  most  painful. 
When  he  rose  to  go,  he  said  he  would  look 
in  again  in  the  evening.  Spencer  answ^ered 
hoarsely,  it  w^as  not  necessar3\  But  as  he 
lay  weak  and  aching  through  the  cold  and 
wretched  day — with  its  solitude  onty  broken 
by  the  rare  appearances  of  Mrs.  Whittaker's 
amiable  and  untidy  head  round  the  bed  cur- 


DR.  MARK  137 

tains — he  caught  himself  trusting  that  the 
old  boy  had  not  taken  him  at  his  word.  And 
when  Dr.  Benet  did  come  creaking  in  again — 
to  find  that  JNIrs.  Whittaker,  who  had  readily 
promised  to  do  everything  he  had  bidden  her, 
had  done  nothing — Mark  owned  humbly  to 
his  own  heart  that  he  was  glad. 

After  that,  he  was  too  ill  to  be  glad  or 
sorry  about  anything.  The  cold  March  twi- 
light came  in  through  the  uncurtained  win- 
dow. The  miserable  fire  went  out.  Mark 
passed  first  into  that  strange  borderland 
when  one  is  neither  sensible  nor  senseless; 
conscious,  but  only  of  supreme  discomfort; 
and  at  last  fell  into  a  restless  sleej),  filled  with 
troubled  dreams. 

When  he  woke  up,  not  knowing  whether 
he  had  been  asleep  five  minutes  or  as  many 
hours,  he  thought  he  was  dreaming  still. 

There  was  a  cheerful  fire  in  the  grate,  and 
its  pleasant  flicker  in  the  room.  A  kettle 
sang  on  the  hob.  Through  a  long  hole  in  his 
tattered  bed  curtain,  he  further  perceived 
that  a  plaid  shawl  had  been  hung  over  the 
bare  window.  His  clothes,  which  he  had  left 
half  on  a  chair,  and  half  on  the  floor,  had 
been  neatly  folded.  On  the  mantelpiece,  the 
goodly  row  of  black  bottles  ordered  by  Dr. 


138  BASSET 

Eenet  had  been  supplemented  by  more  bot- 
tles, a  teapot,  and  a  milk- jug.  On  the  chair 
by  the  bed  there  was  a  tray,  and  a  glass  with 
a  cooling  drink  in  it.  Spencer  also  saw  that, 
while  he  slept,  his  very  bed — perhaps  even 
himself^ — had  been  tidied,  as  by  a  master  hand. 
There  was  an  extra  and  spotless  blanket  over 
his  feet.  On  a  nail  on  his  wall  hung  a  large 
and  decent  female  bonnet  of  Dunstable  black 
straw.  And  seated  in  a  rocking-chair  by  the 
fire,  with  her  madonna  front  surmounted  by  a 
night-cap,  her  manly  dressing-gown  of  grey 
flannel  tied  by  the  sleeves  round  her  neck  to 
afford  extra  warmth — with  her  hands  clasped 
on  her  capacious  lap,  her  eyes  closed,  and  her 
face  perfectly  alert,  wakeful,  and  determined 
— sat  the  author  of  all  the  changes. 

]Mark  was  for  the  moment  annoyed,  but 
too  ill  to  be  keenly  annoyed;  then,  being 
weak,  and  deficient  in  his  usual  abundant 
self-control,  he  had  to  stuff  a  corner  of  the 
sheet  into  his  mouth  to  prevent  himself  from 
laughing  out  loud.  He  did  not  make  a  sound. 
But  in  two  minutes,  his  curtains  had  been 
drawn  back,  and  there,  like  avenging  Eleanor 
presenting  the  poisoned  bowl  to  Rosamund, 
stood  JNIrs.  Benet  with  a  long  medicine  glass 
in  her  hand.     She  offered  no  explanations  of 


DR.  MARK  139 

her  appearance  or  her  role.  She  merely  ob- 
served with  a  Roman  simphcity  and  stern- 
ness, that  it  was  time  for  the  medicine;  and 
Mark  found  himself  draining  to  the  last  drop 
the  long,  nauseous  and  slimy  draught — of 
which  he  entirely  disapproved — as  if  he  liked 
it. 

After  that,  Mrs.  Benet  announced  that  he 
must  go  to  sleep;  and  he  slept,  as  he  said 
himself  later,  because  he  did  not  dare  to  keep 
awake. 

When  he  did  wake,  a  March  morning  sun- 
shine filled  the  room;  the  window  had  been 
shorn  of  its  plaid;  the  nurse,  in  it  and  her 
bonnet,  was  standing  by  his  side  to  make 
the  announcement  that  she  was  leaving  him 
for  an  hour  to  see  to  her  old  man.  Spencer, 
whose  tongue  was  as  slow  to  express  grati- 
tude as  his  heart  was  quick  to  feel  it,  tried  to 
thank  her,  and  begged  her  not  to  return. 
She  shook  her  head  at  him  meditatively,  as 
if  to  inquire  what  he  fancied  would  become  of 
him  if  she  did  not.  When  Dr.  Benet  arrived 
at  nine,  Spencer,  thanking  him  again,  de- 
clared he  need  not  further  trouble  his  wife; 
and  old  Benet  said,  "  You  don't  know 
Jeannie." 

If  he  did  not,  he  was  to  know  her  soon. 


I40  BASSET 

In  a  few  days  he  began  positively  to  like 
the  broad  face  which  he  had  thought  merely 
ugly  and  absurd,  and  the  sound  of  her  steady 
step  and  voice.  Under  the  circumstances,  it 
was  not  perhaps  surprising  that  she  should 
insist — well  knowing  his  conceited  mistrust 
of  medicines — not  only  that  he  should  take 
all  those  her  husband  had  ordered,  but  some 
patent  home-made  ones  which  she  took  in  ad- 
dition to  old  Benet's  remedies  when  she  her- 
self was  ill,  and  to  which  she  always  ascribed 
her  cure.  A  little  judicious  starvation  in 
the  early  stages  of  influenza  was  one  of  the 
new  articles  of  Spencer's  medical  creed,  and 
lo!  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  he  found 
himself  fed  up  with  strong  broths  and  port 
wine;  while  Mrs.  Benet  further  caused  some 
particularly  solid  and  life-giving  soup  (a 
speciality  of  Pollie's  cook)  to  be  sent  down 
from  the  INIanor. 

Knowing  his  nonsensical  partiality  for 
fresh  air,  she  firmlv  nailed  up  strips  of  cloth 
all  round  the  window  (which,  of  course,  was 
never  opened)  lest  by  any  chance  even  the 
smallest  amount  of  oxygen  should  penetrate 
through  the  cracks.  Spencer  often  had  to 
put  his  head  under  the  bed-clothes  now  to 
silence  his   chuckles.     He  had   beheved,   not 


DR.  MARK  141 

wrongly,  that  he  had  a  great  deal  of  deter- 
mination of  character.  But  those  who  are  the 
slowest  to  yield  to  force  are  sometimes  the 
readiest  to  yield  to  kindness. 

One  day,  when  old  Queen  Eleanor  brought 
him  a  steaming  cup  of  beef-tea,  Spencer 
looked  up  at  her  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes 
and  said,  "Don't  you  wish  it  was  poison?" 
and  with  something  very  like  an  answering 
twinkle  in  hers,  Eleanor  replied,  "  Young 
man,  you  are  uncommonly  lucky  it's 
not." 

Somehow,  after  that,  there  was  a  bridge 
over  the  differences  between  them;  and,  a 
little  doubtfully  and  shamefacedly,  they  be- 
gan to  cross  it. 

The  nurse's  brisk,  healthy  manner  of  treat- 
ing disease  as  a  brief,  tiresome  accident,  par- 
ticularly ai^pealed  to  a  patient  who  was 
always  ashamed  of  himself  if  he  had  a  sick 
mind  because  he  had  a  sick  body.  The  ruth- 
less way  in  which  she,  morally,  pulverized 
Mrs.  Whittaker  to  dust,  when  that  lady  put 
her  head  into  the  room  with  futile  offers  of 
assistance,  also  did  the  invalid  a  great  deal 
of  good. 

Soon,  when  old  Benet  paid  his  visit, 
Spencer  took  to  watching  keenly  the  wife's 


142  BASSET 

face  as  her  husband  talked;  and  he  hked  the 
stern,  dogged  fideUty  with  which  she  carried 
out  the  old  Doctor's  instructions — especially 
when  she  knew  they  were  likely  to  be  dis- 
approved of  by  the  young  one. 

Now  and  again,  as  she  sat  knitting  her 
good-man  a  2^aii'  of  stockings,  she  let  fall 
things  she  had  heard,  from  quite  impartial 
outsiders,  in  his  praise.  One  day,  she  told  her 
patient  the  story  of  a  case  in  Dilchester, 
which  the  London  bigwigs  had  given  up  as 
hopeless,  and  he?'  doctor  had  pronounced 
curable — ^and  cured.  And,  indeed,  as  Spen- 
cer grew  to  know  his  rival  better,  the  more 
he  respected  the  Doctor,  as  well  as  liked  the 
man;  and  his  pride  had  to  confess  that  he 
had  mistaken  for  a  stiff-necked  country  fool 
a  wise  old  person  who  had  something  very 
like  an  inborn  genius  for  discovering  disease, 
and  mother-wit  worth  all  the  learning  of  the 
schools. 

On  her  side,  old  JNIadam  soon  divined — 
somehow,  for  IMark  was  a  man  who  found  it 
absolutely  impossible  to  bestow  confidences — 
the  story  of  his  solitary  and  determined  youth, 
and  of  success,  quickly  followed  by  ill-health. 
Instead  of  a  medical  Juggernaut,  with  his 
car  crushing  in  cruel  triumph  other  people's 


DR.  MARK  143 

practice  and  hapj)iness,  she  saw  a  nature 
singularly  sensitive  and  compassionate.  Of 
course,  being  still  in  love  with  her  old  man, 
she  immediately  imparted  to  him  all  her  dis- 
coveries, and  Richard  said  simply,  "  Well, 
you  know,  Jeannie,  I  always  liked  Spencer 
personally  from  the  first,  only  I  didn't  dare 
to  tell  you  so." 

By  the  time  Mark  had  guessed  at  the  one 
lack  in  his  new  friends'  lives — their  childless- 
ness— Jeannie  was  mothering  hiin.  Her 
quaint  figure  still  moved  him  to  smiles — 
under  the  bed-clothes — when  he  looked  at 
her,  but  now  she  and  her  husband  had  come 
into  it,  he  no  longer  felt  himself  alone  in  the 
world  he  meant  to  conquer.  He  read,  and 
Hked  to  read,  their  homely  love-story.  While, 
on  her  side,  Jeannie,  as  she  brewed  him  beef- 
tea  or  washed  up  his  tea-cup  and  medicine- 
glasses,  mentally  scoured  Basset  for  a  wife 
for  him,  and  even  cast  a  bird's-eye  view  over 
Dilchester  with  the  same  end. 

When,  at  the  end  of  two  or  three  weeks, 
he  grew  better,  and  she  only  came  every  now 
and  then  for  an  hour,  and  finally  merely 
looked  in  upon  him  two  or  three  times  a  day, 
he  positively  decided  that,  despite  the  work 
awaiting  him  and  the  brief  time  accorded  to 


144  BASSET 

any  mortal  to  do  it,  he  was  not  perfectly  glad 
he  was  getting  well. 

One  day,  as  he  sat  in  an  armchair  by  the 
fire,  she  entered  his  bedroom  suddenly,  in  her 
grim  bonnet,  and — after  they  had  exchanged 
the  briefest  of  greetings,  and  without  having 
asked  such  a  superfluity  as  his  permission — 
began  calmly  and  thoroughly  to  overhaul  his 
wardrobe. 

The  next  day,  when  he  was  promoted  to  his 
sitting-room  for  the  first  time,  he  beheld  her, 
through  its  window,  to  his  great  amusement, 
carrjT^ing  home,  fully  exposed  to  the  gaze  of 
Basset,  an  armful  of  his  unmended  clothing, 
of  which  socks  were  by  far  the  most  decent 
items. 

It  was  now  that  those  two  old  cronies, 
Peter  Grant  and  Tommy  Latimer,  came  to 
call  on  him;  Peter,  sitting  looking  into  the 
fire  in  a  compassionate  silence;  and  Tommy, 
in  the  old  armchair  opposite,  positively 
bursting  with  suppressed  questions — his 
mother  having  prudenth^  warned  him  it 
would  be  rude  to  ask  any. 

Later,  came  Mr.  and  INIrs.  Latimer 
themselves.  Mrs.  Latimer  brought  a  jelly  in 
a  shape,  and  jNIark  liked  to  watch  the  en- 
grossed interest  she  took  in  turning  it   out. 


DR.  MARK  145 

whole  and  perfect,  on  to  a  plate.  She  found 
his  deep,  attentive  eyes  upon  her  face,  when 
she  had  finished  that  important  work,  and 
met  them  with  her  frank,  clear  look. 

While  he  and  Harry  were  talking — or 
Harry  was  talking  and  Spencer  appearing  to 
listen— she  took  up  a  number  of  the  (Quar- 
terly from  among  Mark's  heterogeneous  pos- 
sessions— the  Quarterlu  still  in  its  "  boister- 
ous youth  " — and  INIark  saw  her  pucker  her 
white  forehead  as  her  quick  and  uninstructed 
intelligence  came  across  some  allusion  she 
did  not  catch.  When  she  put  down  the 
book  and  joined  in  the  conversation,  he  was 
surprised  at  the  acuteness  of  her  sympathies 
and  the  ready  comprehensions  of  her  heart; 
for  he  knew  that  it  is  those  who  have  suffered 
themselves  who  feel  for  others,  and  that  the 
heart  only  understands  what  it  has  endured. 

Three  or  four  days  after,  Harry  came 
again,  alone. 

Since  "  one  can  hardly  hate  any  one  that 
one  knows,"  he  and  Spencer  got  on  much 
better  now  than  at  their  first  meetings. 
Harry  was  full  of  bonhomie  and  kindness. 
This  time,  he  brought  INIark,  Daniel's 
"  Rural  Sports,"  the  only  book  he  ever  will- 
ingly opened  himself,  and  so  the  only  book 


146  BASSET 

he  could  conceive  any  other  man  washing  to 
read.  Then,  too,  his  jolly,  healthy  aspect 
was  strengthening  like  a  tonic.  He  hos- 
pitably invited  Spencer  to  come  and  recruit 
for  a  week  or  two  at  the  IManor — it  looks  so 
deucedly  uncomfortable  here,  says  candid 
Harry.  Spencer  only  paused  a  second  before 
refusing  the  invitation.  But  Harry  was 
quite  clever  enough  to  see  that  he  actually 
^^■anted  to  come;  what  was  beyond  his  com- 
prehension was  that  any  one  should  wish  to 
do  some  perfectly  possible  thing,  and  not 
do  it. 

He  went  off,  contemplatively  whistling, 
and  reflected  on  such  queerness  for  quite 
three  or  four  minutes. 

But  if  Spencer  was  not,  as  he  had  said, 
well  enough  to  be  a  guest  at  the  Manor,  he 
was  apparently  well  enough  to  be  a  pretty 
constant  visitor  at  the  Benets'. 

He  spent  almost  every  evening  there  now. 
His  long  legs  filled  up  most  of  the  little 
parlour.  Before  INIaggie  brought  in  the  tea- 
things,  the  professional  books  were  produced 
from  the  surgery,  and  old  Benet's  rumpled 
grey  head  and  ISIark's  dark  one  met  together 
over  those  thick  volumes.  The  old  man,  as 
ever,  talked  a  good  deal,  and  the  young  one 


DR.  MARK  147 

very  little.  ^Irs.  Benet,  who  was  quite  un- 
blushingly  engaged  in  darning  Mark's  wool- 
len drawers,  held  up  her  needle  to  thread  it 
at  the  candlelight,  and  now  and  then  made  a 
short,  sensible  suggestion.  Maggie's  cheer- 
ful singing  came  from  the  kitchen;  and 
Queen  Caroline,  being  tried  over  the  mantel- 
piece, looked  down  on  a  scene  both  pleasant 
and  peaceful. 

Basset  used  to  see,  and  comment  on  the 
fact,  that  the  invalid  walked  back  quite  late, 
on  uncommonly  chilly  spring  evenings,  to 
Myrtle  Cottage,  though  it  was  still  stated  he 
was  not  well  enough  to  visit  or  to  receive 
patients. 

One  day,  it  beheld  him  being  taken  by 
old  Benet  and  Neck-or-Nothing  into  Dil- 
chester.  Neck-or-Nothing  had  quite  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour's  good  sleep  outside  the 
office  of  Messrs.  Bastrick  and  Dodd,  solici- 
tors, while  his  passengers  were  within. 

Soon  after,  Basset  observed  that  the  brass 
plates  outside  Myrtle  Cottage  and  Dr. 
Benet's  house  were  both  missing.  There  was 
a  brief,  blank  interval.  Then  they  were  re- 
placed, each  bearing  the  inscription — 

Drs.  Benet  and  Spencer, 
Physicians  and   Surgeons. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    WHITE    COTTAGE 

While  the  partnership  between  Drs. 
Richard  and  INIark  was  still  a  new  thing 
and  a  nine  days'  wonder,  Basset  actually 
found  itself  in  the  throes  of  yet  another  ex- 
citement. ]Miss  Pilkington's  niece  was  com- 
ing to  live  with  her. 

Rachel  Pilkington  was  the  fourth  of  "  old 
Pil's  "  five  motherless  daughters. 

For  many  years  his  Rectory  house  had 
been  efficiently  managed  by  Eliza,  the  eldest 
and  the  most  disagreeable  of  the  flock.  The 
four  younger  sisters  spent  their  time  in  doing 
little  duties  and  kindnesses  in  the  village,  in 
copying  music,  drawing  in  crayons,  practising 
the  harp  and  the  art  of  keeping  their  temper 
when  Eliza  lost  hers. 

Rachel  was  a  little,  slight,  delicate,  sensi- 
tive creature,  with  rather  a  high  spirit,  and 
thin  cheeks  which  easily  flushed.  At 
sixteen,  she  alone  of  the  sisters  went  to  a 
boarding-school  in  Dilchester,  where  she  was 

148 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  149 

taught,  with  eleven  other  young  ladies,  how 
to  enter  and  leave  with  grace  a  carriage  per- 
manently stationed  in  the  back  yard;  and 
where  she  might  have  said  with  Miss  Bil- 
lickin,  "  a  poorness  of  blood  flowed  from  the 
table  which  has  run  through  my  life." 

She  returned  to  Basset  Rectorj^  in  the 
state  of  genteel  starvation,  not  then  at  all 
unusual  in  girls  educated  at  polite  academies. 

While  old  Benet  was  still  pouring  into  her 
port  wine  and  most  of  the  drugs  in  his 
pharmacopoeia,  Sophy,  her  youngest  sister, 
was  married  to  a  Yorkshire  curate.  Rachel's 
life  scarcely  knew  another  event  until,  some 
fifteen  years  later,  old  Pilkington  died, 
leaving  his  daughters  to  face  the  world  on 
a  pittance  of  about  a  hundred  a  year  each. 

They  had  so  long  sat  together  in  a  pleasant 
breakfast  parlour  doing  nothing  that  need 
have  been  done,  and  trying  not  to  tread, 
metaphorically,  on  each  other's  toes,  that 
they  unanimously  decided  to  part  company 
at  once.  Eliza  elected  to  live  in  Dilchester, 
and  Rachel,  intensely  conservative,  faithful 
and  affectionate — Rachel,  who  felt  her 
native  village  to  be  the  hub  of  the  universe 
and  was  not  without  the  rather  comforting 
idea   that,    if   she    left,    the    hub    would    not 


ISO  BASSET 

work — took  the  White  Cottage,  about  four 
doors  from  the  Benets',  and  settled  in  Basset 
for  ever. 

She  was  at  this  time  five  and  fiftj^ — five 
and  fifty  being  then  a  good  ten  years  older 
than  it  is  now.  She  was  liberal  and  generous 
to  a  fault,  devoutly  religious,  and  with  great 
purity  and  simplicitj^  of  nature.  She  laid 
up  for  herself  no  treasure  on  earth;  let  not 
her  left  hand  know  what  her  right  hand  did; 
blessed  them  which  cursed  her,  and  prayed 
for  them  that  despitefully  used  her;  or,  in 
other  words,  had  most  of  the  qualities  which 
exasperate  sensible  people,  spell  failure  for 
this  world,  and  are  the  ideal  attributes  of 
the  Sermon  on  the  JNIount. 

It  must  be  added  that,  at  the  same  time, 
Rachel  was  warmlj^  human.  She  was  very 
glad  to  be  parted  from  her  sisters,  though  she 
was  very  sorry  she  was  glad.  She  had,  as 
had  all  the  Pilkingtons,  a  great  deal  of  family 
pride.  On  the  strength  of  their  descent  from 
a  mythical  Sir  Pjdke,  who  had — of  course — 
come  over  with  the  Conqueror,  they  were  all 
imbued  with  the  comfortable  idea  that,  as 
a  family,  they  could  not  possibly  do  wrong. 
Rachel  was  about  four  feet  two  inches  high, 
but  felt   quite  tall,   on  the   principle   that   a 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  151 

Pilkington  must  inevitably  be  the  right 
height;  M'hile  the  same  faith  in  the  family 
infallibility  caused  her  loyally  to  think  that 
old  Pilkington  had  done  well  in  living,  as 
Harry  Latimer  put  it,  like  a  fighting  cock, 
and  leaving  his  daughters  to  penury. 

It  was  naturally  a  dreadful  wrench  to 
Rachel  to  leave  the  Rectory;  and  when  she 
saw  Peter  Grant's  coarse  and  shabby  effects 
being  moved  into  parlours  hitherto  sacred 
to  Pilkingtons,  and  into  the  room  where 
Rachel's  mother  had  died — years  and  years 
ago — she  had  to  take  to  her  bed  for  three  or 
four  days,  quite  ill  from  agitation.  The 
calming  powders  Dr.  Benet  administered  did 
her  less  good  than  his  wife's  visit  of  sympathy, 
when  the  expression  on  old  Jeannie's  face 
clearly  showed  that  she  thought  Miss  Pilking- 
ton a  fool. 

She  soon  settled  down,  however,  to  her 
new  life- — with  a  faint  regret  for  past  afflu- 
ence, but  soothed  by  the  feeling  that,  what- 
ever Fate  did,  one,  after  all,  remained  a  Pil- 
kington— and  accepted  her  straitened  cir- 
cumstances with  great  courage  and  cheerful- 
ness. 

Not  at  all  clever  in  anything  else,  she 
managed     gifts     and     benefactions     to     the 


152  BASSET 

poor  out  of  her  hundred  per  annum — 
miraculous,  hke  the  loaves  and  fishes  of  the 
Gospel.  When  such  charity  threatened  really 
disastrous  effects  on  her  exchequer — a  small, 
green  silk,  netted  purse — she  paid  a  visit  to 
]Mr.  Rastrick,  in  whom  her  faith  personally 
was  even  greater  than  her  faith  in  man 
generally  as  the  creature  appointed  by  Provi- 
dence to  manage  money,  business,  firearms, 
and  emergencies  generally. 

Had  old  Rastrick  wished,  he  could  easily 
have  cheated  her  of  her  whole  little  fortune — 
only,  God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn 
lamb,  and  he  did  not  so  wish.  Rachel  would 
leave  his  office,  sorry  that  a  new  shawl  was 
imjiossible  for  her,  since  her  crippled  nephew 
must  have  that  winter  coat — with  her  usual 
cheerful,  j^leasant  expression  of  countenance, 
and  vaguely  feeling  enlightened. 

But,  of  course,  it  was  not  only  in  giving 
that  Rachel  was  generous  and  foolish. 

When  she  heard  Eliza  was  ill,  she  imme- 
diately and  impulsively  borrowed  Farmer 
Finch's  chaise,  and  posted  off  to  Dilchester, 
armed  with  shawls,  a  warming-pan,  and  soup 
reluctantly  made  bj^  Sarah — her  sour,  sharp 
servant  who  had  been  one  of  the  Rectory 
housemaids  and  had  now  taken  JNliss  Rachel 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  153 

in  charge.  Rachel  was  not  deterred  from  re- 
peating such  kindness  by  the  fact  that  Eliza 
jjointed  out  tartly  that  if  she  had  wished  for 
Rachel's  aid  she  could  have  asked  for  it. 
Eliza  also  hinted  plainly  that  she  had  but  a 
low  opinion  of  people  who  had  so  little  to 
do  that  they  could  leave  their  home  and 
duties  at  any  moment. 

Two  of  Rachel's  firmest  convictions  were 
that  all  clergymen  are  always  right,  and  that 
her  father  could  do  no  wrong;  and  when  she 
saw  Peter  Grant  conducting — or  non-con- 
ducting— the  services  and  himself  in  a  man- 
ner of  which  Mr.  Pilkington  could  never 
have  approved,  she  found  it  hard  to  reconcile 
these  tenets. 

Her  religion — that  religion  which  made 
her  not  only  religious  but  good — had  once 
been  pure  delight  to  her. 

But  her  intuitions  detected  the  lifeless- 
ness  and  formalism  of  those  discourses  of  old 
Grant's,  written  for  nobody  in  particular,  by 
nobody  in  particular.  The  ragged  condition 
of  his  preaching  gown  was  a  real  distress  to 
her.  The  deteriorated  band  not  only  grated 
dreadfully  on  her  musical  ear,  but  jarred,  by 
its  casual  and  whispering  behaviour,  on  her 
reverent  soul.     It  was  an  agony  to  her  to  see 


154  BASSET 

Rover — of  whom  she  was  moreover  very  timid 
■ — sacrilegiously  strolling  into  the  chancel 
whenever  he  thought  fit.  But  she  was  such 
a  really  pious  woman  that  on  one  occasion,  in 
the  Litany,  when  she  saw  a  mouse  in  the 
corner  of  her  neglected  pew — as  it  were,  men- 
acing her — she  kept  quite  a  quarter  of  her 
devout  attention  on  the  service,  and  only 
three  parts  on  the  enemy.  Sarah  was  sent 
up  to  the  pew  next  day  with  a  mouse-trap; 
and  also — it  was  really  necessary — brought 
with  her  a  patent  blackbeetle  exterminator, 
invented  by  a  Pilkington  grandmother. 

In  fiction,  the  typical  old  maid  always 
spends  her  evening  weeping  "  over  the 
shoulder  knot  that  sleeps  within  her  cuff- 
box,"  or  pondering  over  the  dear,  dead  days 
of  love  and  youth. 

There  had  been  no  love — in  a  sense,  hardly 
any  real  youth — for  Rachel.  She  had  always 
been  without  that  exquisite  illusiveness — 
called  charm;  and  for  the  only  pursuit  then 
permitted  to  women,  the  pursuit  of  a  hus- 
band, she  had  had  too  much  pride  and 
delicacy.  So  not  having  even  a  dog  or  a 
Cause  like  a  modern  spinster,  she  sat  alone 
in  the  long  evenings;  sometimes  divested  the 
harp  of  its  green  baize  suit,  and  sang  to  it; 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  155 

and,  if  it  had  not  been  one  of  the  best 
established  Pilkington  traditions  that  the 
whole  family  inevitably  sang  true,  would 
have  fancied  the  thinness  and  sharpness  of 
old  age  in  her  voice. 

One  day,  when  Basset  was  still  gaping 
and  gasping  at  the  new  plate  on  the  doctors' 
doors,  Rachel  received  a  letter  from  her 
sister  Sophy;  and,  the  letter  arriving  in  the 
morning,  saved  it  to  enjoy  over  her  evening 
tea.  Not  that  Sophj^'s  letters  were  generally 
enjoyable,  the  first  sheet  being,  as  a  rule, 
filled  with  lamentations  on  her  poverty,  and 
the  second  with  envy  of  Rachel's  superior 
wealth  and  comforts;  for,  as  Sophy  very 
justly  said,  a  single  woman  is  rich  on  a 
hundred  pounds  a  year  compared  with  a 
family  of  seven,  exclusive  of  parents,  on 
two  hundred  and  fifty. 

But  this  evening,  Miss  Pilkington,  study- 
ing the  closely  written  sheets,  was  surprised 
to  find  that  Sophy  began,  not  by  pitying  her- 
self, but  by  pitying  her.  She  was  sure  dear 
Rachel  must  often  find  Basset  very  dull! 

Rachel  laid  down  the  letter,  not  a  little 
astonished  and  affronted.  The  very  idea  that 
the  birth-place  of  the  family  should  be  criti- 
cised, appeared  to  her  almost  sacrilegious. 


156  BASSET 

Dull!  when  she  knew  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  it ;  when  she  had  onty  to  look  out 
of  her  parlour  window  to  see  INIrs.  Benet  in 
her  best  shawl  and  bonnet,  going — wtII, 
where  could  she  be  going?  or  JNIiss  Fitten 
staggering  under  a  vast  brown  paper  parcel, 
evidently  somebody's  new  gown — ^but  whose? 

Dull?     What  was   Sophy  thinking  of? 

That  was  evident,  even  to  Rachel's  un- 
suspiciousness,  when,  on  the  next  sheet, 
Soj)hy  proceeded  to  say  that  she  had  long 
thought  what  a  delightful  companion  Ann, 
her  eldest  daughter,  would  be  for  her  aunt 
Rachel,  and  to  propose  that  Rachel  should 
have  her  to  live  with  her.  Having  stated  on 
page  two  that  every  additional  mouth  to  feed 
was  dreadfully  exj)ensive  for  the  Thornberys, 
did  not  prevent  Sophy  boldly  representing  on 
page  four  that  Ann  "  could  not  make  any 
difference  "  to  Rachel.  Sarah,  said  Sophy — 
knowing  Sarah  and  Rachel  too — need  not  be 
consulted. 

A  business-like  postscript  added  that  Ann 
having  the  prospect  of  a  reliable  escort  as  far 
as  Burkham,  by  the  coach  arriving  there  on 
Thursday  week,  did  not  Rachel  think  it 
would  be  a  great  pity  to  miss  such  a  provi- 
dential opportunity? 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  157 

Given  Rachel's  weakness  and  strong  sense 
of  duty,  it  should  scarcely  be  necessary  to 
say  that  on  Thursday  week  she  was  standing 
at  her  door,  with  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her 
eyes  very  kind  and  bright,  expecting  Ann. 
When  a  chaise  drew  up,  and  a  slight  figure 
descended,  much  disguised  in  shabby  and 
miscellaneous  wraps,  Rachel  drew  her  niece 
closely  to  her,  and  having  found  a  very 
lovely  and  roselike  face  in  the  depths  of  a 
bonnet,  kissed  it  with  real  warmth  and  af- 
fection. 

As  they  sat  at  the  generous  tea  Rachel 
had  provided,  she  could  scarcely  eat  any- 
thing for  delighting  in  Ann's  prettiness. 
She  was  already  looking  forward  to  j^roudly 
introducing  her  to  Basset.  Then,  remember- 
ing if  she  had  gained,  her  niece  had  certainly 
lost,  kind  Rachel  leant  forward,  patted  Ann's 
little  hand,  and  said  warmly,  she  quite  under- 
stood how  Ann  must  have  felt  parting  from 
her  parents  and  brothers  and  sisters. 

Sensibility  was  a  virtue  then,  not  a  vice, 
as  now.  Ann  raised  her  eyes — they  were  as 
calm  and  blue  as  a  spring  sky — to  Rachel's, 
and  said  in  her  soft,  even  voice,  she  had  felt 
it  dreadfully,  but  was  sure  she  was  going  to 
be  very  happy  with  her  aunt. 


158  BASSET 

In  the  evening,  Rachel  forgot  her  netting 
to  watch  that  exquisite  head,  with  its  meek 
braids  of  fair  hair,  outlined  against  the  sam- 
pler hanging  on  the  wall;  the  carmine  and 
lilies  of  the  face  bent  over  some  needlework; 
and  the  slender,  round  arm,  showing  through 
the  muslin  sleeve.  When  Ann  had  gone  to 
bed,  Rachel  began  a  prematurely  enthusiastic 
letter  to  Sophy  to  say  what  a  very  pretty, 
dear  girl  she  found  her  niece. 

Rachel  enjoyed,  very  likely,  as  much  as 
Ann,  the  admiration  in  Pollie's  honest  eyes 
when,  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  Latimer,  as 
leading  lady  in  the  village  and  in  duty  bound, 
paid  a  morning  call  on  the  newcomer;  and 
properly  aj^preciated  the  frank,  rude,  com- 
plimentary stares  in  which  INIrs.  Benet  in- 
dulged when  she  called. 

At  church,  on  the  very  first  Sunday  Ann 
accomjDanied  her  there,  Rachel  was  quite 
excited  by  the  glances  thrown  at  her  com- 
panion. She  strongly  suspected  JNIark  Spen- 
cer of  having  changed  his  seat  from  one 
corner  of  his  green-baize  pew  to  another 
with  the  express  purpose  of  getting  a  better 
view  of  Ann;  though,  to  be  sure,  his  new 
post  commanded  an  improved  outlook, 
not  only  on  Miss  Pilkington's,  but  on  the 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  159 

Manor  pew  and  on  the  clerk  and  parson  as 
well. 

It  was,  very  reprehensibly,  during  the 
sermon  that  it  occurred  to  Rachel  that  her 
niece  was  very  poorly  dressed.  On  that 
Sunday  evening,  as  Ann  read  aloud  to  her 
aunt — in  just  the  same  gentle  voice  as  she 
had  read  a  recipe  for  damson  cheese  the 
night  before — some  of  those  verses  of  George 
Herbert,  whose  quaint  piety  brought  tears 
into  Rachel's  eyes,  it  flashed  into  her  mind 
that  she  might  part  with  the  marrow-spoon. 

Rachel  loved  every  item  of  her  share  of 
the  family  silver,  as  if  it  had  been  a  relation. 
But,  all  the  same,  on  Monday  she  unearthed 
from  the  little  plate-chest  in  her  bedroom  the 
long  silver  object^ — something  like  a  giant 
pen-holder — with  which  three  generations  of 
Pilkingtons  had  extracted  the  small  portion 
of  marrow  which  resides  in  the  hollow  bone 
that  accompanies  boiled  beef;  and  profanely 
sold  it  to  the  Dilchester  silversmith. 

Wlien  she  saw  Ann  next  Sunday  in  the 
sweetest  straw  bonnet,  with  ribbons  as  blue 
as  her  eyes,  the  little  aunt  knew  she  must 
complete  the  sacrifice  with  the  shawl  which 
had  been  her  own  mother's — which  she  had 
reverenced  too  deeply  to  wear  herself. 


i6o  BASSET 

Ann  was  genuinely  delighted  with  these 
presents.  Whether  the  sentiment  in  them 
touched  her  at  all,  Rachel  could  not  tell. 
She  looked  up  at  her  niece  as  they  walked 
back  from  church — Ann  was  but  a  little 
creature  bj^  modern  measures,  but  a  tall 
woman  beside  Aunt  Pilkington — wondered  if 
Ann  had  a  very  warm  heart,  and  reproached 
herself  that  she  wondered. 

That  she  had  a  very  serene  temper  and  a 
very  orderly  mind,  there  was  no  doubt.  She 
played  spillikins  with  her  aunt,  or  listened 
tranquilly  to  stories  of  Pilkington  palmy  days 
and  ancestors,  by  the  hour  together.  She 
picked  up  dropped  stitches  of  knitting  with 
admirable  patience;  and,  the  bird  being  com- 
mitted to  her  charge,  never  once  forgot  to 
give  him  seed  and  water,  and  decently  cover 
up  his  cage  whenever  the  hall-door  bell  pre- 
saged a  visitor. 

Yet  her  amiability  did  not  come  from 
stupidit}^ 

She  saved  Rachel  more  than  one  visit  to 
Mr.  Rastrick,  and  introduced  a  better  method 
of  unravelling  knott}"  points  in  accounts  than 
the  simple  one  Rachel  had  hitherto  adopted — 
that  of  neatly  cutting  out  the  page  where 
they  refused  to  balance  with  a  j)air  of  em- 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  i6i 

broidery  scissors,  letting  bygones  be  bygones, 
and  starting  afresh  with  as  much  "  in  hand  " 
as  fate  and  bad  management  had  left  in  the 
green  silk  purse. 

After  Ann  had  been  at  the  White  Cottage 
about  a  fortnight,  news  came  from  Y^orkshire 
that  her  crippled  brother  was  seriously  ill. 
Imj)ulsive  Rachel  was  all  for  packing  her 
niece  home,  then  and  there,  that  she  might 
be  in  time  to  receive  his  last  kiss.  However, 
Ann  raised  the  thoroughly  sound  objection  of 
the  expense  of  the  journey,  and  observed 
that  children  always  pulled  through  illnesses 
— very  sensibly,  as  it  turned  out,  the  next 
post  bringing  news  of  Frank's  improvement. 

Somehow,  after  this  little  episode,  there 
was— if  this  be  not  to  put  it  too  strongly — a 
faint  mistrust  in  Rachel's  kind  eyes  when 
they  looked  at  her  niece. 

Was  pretty  Ann  altogether  too  good  to  be 
true?    Rachel  was  not  perfectly  sure. 

She  sat  long  sometimes  looking  into  the 
little  fire  (which,  the  spring  being  cold,  Sarah 
still  kindly  permitted  her) ,  thinking,  when 
Ann  had  gone  to  bed.  At  times  she  won- 
dered, foolishly  no  doubt,  if  she  were  not 
almost  more  lonely  now  than  she  had  been 
before  her  niece  came.      Those  quick,   lively 


1 62  BASSET 

feelings  always  bubbling  up  in  her  own  heart, 
seemed  to  find  no  response  in  Ann's.  Though 
Ann's  manner  to  her  aunt  was  perfectly 
respectful,  yet  Rachel  felt — nay,  knew — that 
Ann  despised  her  for  having  managed  mat- 
ters so  badly  as  to  be  left  a  penniless  old 
maid,  when  other  women,  with  less  advan- 
tages, had  a  husband  and  consideration. 
To-night,  too,  the  darkly  uncharitable  idea 
actually  suggested  itself  to  her  that,  though 
Ann  might  be  nearly  as  horrified  at  telling 
a  good,  round  lie  as  w^ould  Rachel  herself,  she 
might  play  false  all  the  same. 

The  inaugural  tea-party  wdiich  JMiss  Pil- 
kington  gave  presently  to  introduce  Ann  to 
Basset  society,  did  not  succeed  in  making  her 
known  to  its  mankind;  when  the  White  Cot- 
tage issued  invitations  thej%  with  one  consent, 
began  to  make  excuse. 

However,  the  very  next  morning,  when 
she  and  Rachel  were  walking  in  the  village, 
Harry  Latimer,  who  was  riding  with  his  son, 
pulled  up  and  had  a  much  longer  talk  with 
JMiss  Pilkington  than  he  would,  perhaps,  have 
indulged  in  if  there  had  been  no  Ann,  bloom- 
ing like  a  rose,  by  her  side. 

It  w^as,  after  all,  only  natural  that  Rachel, 
having  repeatedly  told  Ann  all  the  legends  of 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  163 

the  Pilkingtons'  Rectory  days,  Ann  should  at 
last  express  a  strong  wish  to  see  her  ancestral 
home  for  herself.  Good-natured  Mrs.  Lati- 
mer, hearing  of  the  wish,  offered  her 
chaperonage;  a  day  was  appointed,  and  the 
three  ladies  paid  Peter  a  solemn  forenoon 
visit. 

Peter,  of  course,  was  caught  red-handed, 
as  he  always  was,  smoking,  and  in  clothes 
so  disgraceful  that  Grandpapa  Pilkington 
would  have  died  rather  than  be  seen  in 
them.  The  deep  gloom  that  settled  on  his 
face  when  he  realized  he  had  been  entrapped 
by  visitors,  was  patent  to  one  of  them.  He 
asked  news  of  Mrs.  Latimer  of  his  friend 
Tommy,  and  made  no  further  contribution  to 
the  conversation.  Pollie  presently  suggested 
that  JNIiss  Thornbery  would  like  to  see  the 
garden — now  freshly  dressed  in  April  green 
— and  the  four,  Peter  and  Ann  leading, 
peregrinated  round  it — Peter  never  uttering 
a  word,  and  taking  no  more  interest  in  Ann 
than  if  she  had  been  a  gooseberry  bush. 

When  the  party  returned  to  the  library, 
Ann,  undaunted,  asked  very  prettily  if  she 
might  borrow  one  of  grandpapa's  books;  and 
chose  a  dusty  tome.  In  a  week  or  two,  she 
returned  the  book  to  Parson  Grant,  with  an 


1 64  BASSET 

admirably  written  little  note,  saying  she  was 
very  grateful  for  the  loan  of  books,  as  her 
aunt  had  so  few.  That  idiot  Peter  dropped 
the  note  into  the  paper-basket,  without  even 
seeing  the  suggestion  it  contained.  Ann 
passed  totally  and  immediately  out  of  his 
recollection,  and  the  episode  of  Mr.  Grant 
and  JNIiss  Thornbery  was  finally  closed. 

Shortly  afterwards,  Ann  complained  of  a 
pain  in  her  arm,  which  she  thought  required 
a  doctor. 

Her  lovely  complexion  and  the  clear 
brightness  of  her  eyes  appeared,  even  to 
]Miss  Pilkington,  to  be  quite  unimpaired;  but 
an  indoor  life  and  much  attention  to  health 
had  made  Rachel  chronicalty  nervous  about 
it,  and  she  rephed  that  she  would  send  for 
Dr.  Benet.  Ann  answered  that  she  thought, 
Auntie,  Dr.  Benet  was  getting  very  old,  and 
papa  always  liked  his  children  to  have  a 
j^oung  doctor  if  possible,  so  would  there  be 
any  harm  in  having  Dr.  Spencer  instead? 
Perplexity  showed  in  Rachel's  eyes  and  fore- 
head. The  proprieties  surely  demanded  that 
a  young  woman's  medical  adviser  should  not 
be  a  young  man!  The  pain,  to  be  sure,  was 
situated  ver}^  decently  at  j)resent  in  Ann's 
arm.     But    then,    it    might    move.     Besides, 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  165 

though  the  doctors  were  in  partnership,  the 
old  man  might  yet  have  feehngs  about  the 
young  one  being  preferred  before  him. 

However,  Rachel  yielded  to  the  very 
gentle  persistence  by  which  Ann  always  had 
her  own  way.  Only,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
Mark  was  absent  for  the  whole  day  in  Dil- 
chester,  and  old  Benet  came  in  his  place. 
The  pain  in  the  arm  did  not  seem  to  him  at 
all  serious.  At  least,  he  simj)ly  sent  for  its 
relief  a  bottle  of  white  liquid  which  smelt, 
felt,  and  looked  exactly  like  water,  and  said 
he  need  not  call  again. 

Three  days  later,  Rachel  and  the  patient 
received  an  invitation  to  a  small  evening 
party  at  INIrs.  Benet's. 

If  truth  be  told,  Mrs.  Benet's  parties 
were  not  much  more  exhilarating  than  Miss 
Pilkington's,  but  they  had  the  merit  of  being 
rarer. 

On  the  present  occasion,  Mark  Spencer, 
Mrs.  Rastrick  from  Dilchester,  Rachel  and 
Ann  found  themselves,  with  their  host  and 
hostess,  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  in  Mrs. 
Benet's  best  parlour — with  its  furniture 
clothed  in  covers  of  green  and  purple  wool, 
artificial  fruit  under  one  glass  case,  pink 
wax    fox    and    hoimds    under    another,    the 


1 66  BASSET 

wool  parrots  leering  with  their  boot-buttons 
of  eyes  from  the  mantelj)iece,  and,  pervading 
the  room,  the  cold  smell  of  disuse. 

JNIrs.  Rastrick,  who  was  a  complaining 
elderly  lady  in  a  large  turban,  sat  next  to 
Miss  Pilkington,  and  breathed  into  her 
always  sympathetic  ear  laments  on  life, 
husbands,  and  servants.  Rachel  punctuated 
the  stories  by  nodding  her  head  very  interest-' 
edly  and  emphatically,  and  racked  her  brain 
for  methods  of  helping  jNIrs.  Rastrick — JNIrs. 
Rastrick  being  in  every  respect  immeasurably 
more  capable  and  fortunate  than  Rachel  her- 
self. Dr.  Benet  chatted  cheerily  to  Ann, 
who  was  delightfully  fresh  and  dimpled  in  a 
much- washed  muslin;  and  Spencer's  tete-a- 
tete  with  his  hostess  was  considerably  inter- 
rupted by  that  lady  keeping  one  eye  on  Ann's 
apjjcarance  and  character,  and  the  other  on 
the  door,  anticipating  that  iVIaggie  would  be 
late  with  the  tea. 

After  the  banquet — genteelly  handed  on 
a  tray — the  four  elders  settled  down  to  com- 
merce, played  for  a  very  little  money.  Ann 
was  provided  as  entertainments  with  a  volume 
of  "  The  Keepsake,"  and  with  Dr.  Mark 
Spencer. 

Spencer   was   by   no   means    an   impassive 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  167 

old  dullard  like  Peter  Grant.  He  was  not  at 
all  insensible  to  the  charms  of  Ann's  ex- 
quisite youth;  to  the  sweep  of  the  dark  lashes 
on  her  cheek,  as  she  looked  down  at  the 
book  in  her  lap;  to  the  cool  and  fragrant  air 
that  hung  about  her;  and  to  her  good  breed- 
ing. Nor  was  she  more  difficult  to  talk  to 
than  many  an  ugly  woman,  and  Spencer 
easily  sustained  with  her  a  not  thrillingly 
interesting  conversation.  He  was  quite  aware 
— and  amused,  not  disconcerted,  at  the 
knowledge — that  Mrs.  Benet  was  listening 
to  every  word  of  it,  while  she  kept  at  the 
same  time  a  brisk  mastery  over  her  hand  of 
cards. 

When  the  game  was  over,  Maggie,  who 
was  panting  by  now  as  if  the  party  had  been 
a  race,  brought  in  the  tray  again — on  this 
occasion  containing  cakes  and  wine  and 
water. 

Precisely  at  nine  o'clock,  Mrs.  Rastrick, 
having  exchanged  the  large  turban  for  a  large 
bonnet,  and  anticipating  a  bronchitis  from 
the  night  air,  was  packed  into  her  chaise; 
Sarah  "  fetched  "  Miss  Pilkington  and  Ann 
and  escorted  them  to  the  White  Cottage — 
about  twelve  paces  from  the  Benets'  house. 
Mrs.  Benet  reclad  the  best  parlour  in  holland, 


1 68  BASSET 

and  covered  her  Sunday  merino  with  a  black 
silk  apron.  She,  Spencer  and  her  old  man 
thankfully  repaired  to  the  living-room,  where 
she  made  a  really  good  brew  of  tea  in  the  old 
brown  teapot,  which,  of  course,  did  its  duty 
much  better  than  the  grand  silver  one; 
]M aggie  brought  in  a  heaped  dish  of  the 
cakes  and  sandwiches  which  had  survived  the 
party;  each  man  took  his  accustomed,  com- 
fortable chair;  and  in  ten  minutes  old  Benet 
was  deep  in  his  fifth  reading  of  "  Peter 
Simple,"  his  wife  in  Lady  Blessington's  last 
novel  "The  Slaves  of  Society"  (feeling  she 
had  been  in  a  measure  one  of  them  herself), 
and  ]Mark  in  the  current  Blackwood. 

They  read  in  a  pleasant,  sociable  silence 
for  about  half  an  hour.  Then  ^Irs.  Benet 
looked  up  at  jNIark,  and  said,  "  Well,  will  she 
do?" 

Spencer  laughed,  "  She  wouldn't  have  me, 
if  I  asked  her,"  he  answered,  stretching  out 
his  long  legs,  and  contemplating  the  large 
boots  at  the  end  of  them. 

"Oh!"  says  old  Jeannie.  "Well,  if  you 
don't  want  her,  don't  ask  her,  that's  all;  " 
and  they  relapsed  into  silence  and  their 
books. 

The  next  day,  a  bibulous  old  pensioner  of 


THE  WHITE  COTTAGE  169 

Rachel  Pilkington's  called  upon  her,  demand- 
ing— for  that  last  time  which  never  is  the  last 
' — a  little  monetary  assistance.  At  the  end  of 
their  conversation,  he  begged  her  pardon,  but 
thought  she  and  her  miss  would  like  to  know 
that  the  Chantry  had  been  took,  he  couldn't 
rightly  say  by  who. 

No  one  who  has  lived  for  any  length  of 
time  in  a  small,  remote  village  will  be  greatly 
surprised  to  hear,  ten  minutes  after  re- 
ceiving this  intelHgence,  Ann  and  Miss 
Pilkington  were  in  their  shawls  and  bonnets, 
malving  an  excursion  to  Sir  John's  domain, 
which  was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away. 
In  its  garden,  they  found  the  old  gardener, 
who  acted  as  caretaker  when  the  house  was 
empty. 

He  informed  them  that  the  news  was 
correct,  and  that  in  a  week's  time  he  expected 
the  tenants,  whom  he  had  not  seen,  and  of 
whom  he  knew  nothing  but  their  name — Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Darbisher. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    CHANTRY 

The  Chantry  was  a  low,  sunny  house,  with  a 
rose  garden  sloping  to  a  terrace  with  a  sun- 
dial. In  a  pleasant  oak-panelled  parlour — 
having  a  door  and  windows  opening  on  the 
garden — Lady  Lucy,  Sir  John  Railton's 
mother,  had  been  used  to  sit  reading  and 
embroidering  by  a  work-table,  with  its  deep 
well  full  of  many  coloured  embroidery  silks. 
Little  John  used  to  plunge  his  small  hands 
into  their  softness,  and  always  remembered 
— for  it  is  such  trifles  the  memorj^  keeps 
longest  and  clearest — the  feeling  and  the 
brightness  of  them. 

Lady  Lucy  died  when  he  was  six,  but  he 
might  have  said  with  Cowper,  "  Such  was  the 
impression  her  tenderness  made  upon  me, 
though  the  opportunity  she  had  for  showing 
it  was  so  short,"  that  her  influence  never 
quite  died  out  of  his  life.  It  was  certainly 
its  associations  with  her  wliich  prevented  him 
from  selling  the  Chantry.     It  bored  him  hor- 

170 


THE  CHANTRY  171 

ribly,  as  has  been  said,  when  he  came  back  to 
it.  But  he  Hked  to  think  of  it  standing 
there,  as  it  had  stood  in  her  day,  with  the 
same  books  and  pictures  and  her  Httle 
mahogany  writing-table — a  feehng  that  did 
not  prevent  him  from  letting  it  when  luck 
and  times  were  bad. 

The  afternoon  following  Miss  Pilkington's 
and  Ann's  visit  to  the  house,  Rachel  hap- 
pened— providentially  as  she  said — to  be  sit- 
ting at  her  j^arlour  window,  when  there  came 
through  Basset  at  a  trot  a  travelling  carriage 
much  cumbered  with  luggage. 

From  it,  a  female  head,  rather  gay  as  to  its 
bonnet  and  with  a  floating  veil,  constantly 
emerged,  to  say  something  to  a  very  young 
horseman  with  a  handsome  boyish  face  and 
the  newest  thing  in  riding-coats,  who,  as  the 
female  head  alwaj^s  retired  into  the  carriage 
as  quickly  as  it  had  popped  out,  might  have 
guessed  to  be  somewhat  curt  and  snubbing  in 
his  replies.  Dr.  Benet,  who  was  at  his  gate 
dismounting  from  his  gig  as  the  carriage 
passed,  thought  the  emerging  head  was  an 
old  woman's ;  Miss  Pilkington  said  the  bonnet 
would  be  a  highly  improper  one  for  any 
elderly  person. 

These  conflicting  opinions  were  settled  by 


172  BASSET 

Harry  Latimer  receiving  a  letter  from  a 
friend,  asking  him  to  make  welcome  in  Bas- 
set the  writer's  sister  and  nephew,  Mrs. 
Darbisher  and  her  son. 

oNIrs.  Darbisher  was,  in  jDoint  of  fact,  about 
fifty;  one  of  those  clever,  foolish,  entertain- 
ing and  irresponsible  women  whom,  for  the 
amusement  and  confusion  of  the  world,  we 
have  always  with  us,  but  who  Avere  perhaps 
more  common  seventy  years  ago  than  they 
are  now,  Julia  Darbisher  made  up  for  a 
lack  of  all  education,  except  of  the  most 
trivial  and  useless  kind,  by  a  much  more 
valuable  asset — a  great  deal  of  mother-wit. 
She  had  a  verj^  lively  imagination  and  a  very 
warm  heart,  a  voluble  and  not  scrupulously 
truthful  tongue;  she  was  kind  and  easy-going 
to  a  fault;  extremely  untidy,  absolutely  good- 
natured — in  brief,  a  charming  person  to  have 
as  a  friend,  but  a  little  difficult  to  deal  with 
as  a  relation. 

She  had  been  early  left  a  widow  ^vith  an 
onl}^  son  and  a  sufficient,  comfortable  in- 
come. 

She  had  shamefully  spoilt  Lionel — and  was 
quite  surprised  that  he  became  wilful  and 
undutiful.  She  had  brought  him  up  to  think 
himself  suj^erior  to  every  one — and  then  was 


THE  CHANTRY  173 

a  little  grieved  to  discover  that  he  thought 
himself  superior  to  her. 

He  was,  indeed,  clever — though  not,  of 
course,  half  so  clever  as  he  and  she  thought 
— as  well  as  honest  and  quick  tempered,  and 
at  twenty-two,  very,  very  young  indeed. 
Though  he  had  been  brought  up  at  his 
mother's  apron-strings — or  at  a  private  school 
and  a  tutor's,  which  comes  to  almost  the  same 
thing — he  was  no  milk-sop. 

After  three  years  at  Oxford,  he  had  in- 
sisted on  travelling  abroad,  often  out  of  the 
beaten  track — and  that  at  a  period  when  the 
ordinary  Briton  made  sure  that  a  week's 
feeding  on  anything  but  his  own  roast  beef 
would  poison  him — and  had  proved  himself 
to  have  grit  and  enterprise.  It  was  not  the 
irksome  fact  that  his  mother  held  the  purse- 
strings — for  she  was,  even  in  her  own  despite, 
the  most  liberal  of  women — that  recalled  him 
to  England  much  sooner  than  he  intended, 
but  the  agonized  anticipations  in  her  letters 
that  every  ship  or  diligence  her  dearest  Li 
entered  would  undoubtedly  kill  him,  and  the 
fact,  conveyed  by  an  officious  relative,  that 
anxiety  was  really  making  her  ill. 

Of  course,  he  felt  it  due  to  himself  to  be 
distinctly  cross  when  he  did  return. 


174  BASSET 

His  mother's  impressive  horror  at  the  free- 
thinking  opinions  of  a  young  Scotchman 
Lionel  had  met  on  his  travels,  egged  him  on 
to  imply  darkly  that  he  himself  shared  them. 
His  strictures  on  the  horrible  tastelessness 
and  Philistinism — Lionel  had  natural  good 
taste,  and  was  fresh  from  Italy — of  the  fur- 
nished house  she  was  then  occupying,  directly 
led  to  their  taking,  for  a  few  months,  the 
Chantry,  by  whose  old-world  charms  Lionel 
had  been  attracted. 

There  was  a  certain  amount  of  shooting 
attached  to  Sir  John's  domain.  Lionel  had 
caused  a  fine  cartload  of  books  to  precede 
him  at  the  Chantry,  for,  as  fate  seemed  to  be 
against  his  adopting  the  role  of  a  celebrated 
traveller,  he  was  now  trying  to  make  uji  his 
mind  as  to  whether  he  should  become  a 
Shelley  or  a  Bj^on,  or  merely  one  of  the 
gentlemen  who  hewed  and  hacked  them  in 
the  Quarterly  or  the  Edinburgh.  His 
mother's  belief  in  his  capacity  to  do  or  be 
anything  he  liked  was  not  greater  than  his 
own;  only  she  annoyed  him  because  she  made 
him  absurd  by  showing  it  and  talking 
about  it. 

A  further  argument  for  living  in  Basset 
was,  that  everybody  there  was  to  know  there, 


THE  CHANTRY  175 

the  Darbishers  would  know,  through  their 
introduction  to  the  Latimers.  On  the  whole, 
Lionel  was  disposed  to  think  he  might  have 
a  very  tolerably  enjoyable  time;  while,  so 
excellent  a  training  had  he  given  his  mother 
in  unselfishness,  that  if  he  were  happy — and 
safe — he  could  certainly  conclude  she  would 
be  happy  too. 

As  soon  as  might  be,  and  in  duty  bound, 
Mrs.  Latimer  put  on  her  new  spring  pelisse 
and  called  at  the  Chantry.  Mrs.  Darbisher 
greeted  her  with  the  liveliest  warmth  and 
good-nature,  and  was  so  natural  and  amus- 
ing, PoUie  quite  enjoyed  the  visit.  Dar- 
bisher himself  did  not  come  in  till  she  was 
just  going  away.  She  liked  his  handsome, 
fresh-coloured,  boyish  face,  and  a  certain 
simplicity  and  frankness  that  kept  peeping 
up,  as  it  were,  through  a  rather  grave,  grand 
manner. 

She  fixed  a  day  on  the  spot  for  the  new- 
comers to  dine  at  the  Manor. 

On  the  evening  appointed,  Lionel  sur- 
veyed his  mother  with  a  sternly  critical 
anxiety  when  she  came  down  into  the  par- 
lour equipped  for  the  evening.  The  truth 
was,  that  Mrs.  Darbisher's  clothing  always 
had  an  alarming  appearance  of  being  very 


176  BASSET 

insecurely  fastened  on,  and  that  at  a  dinner- 
party, a  very  few  months  earlier,  her  turban, 
ornamented  with  a  bird  of  paradise,  had 
actually  fallen  from  her  head  among  the 
dishes  and  silver  on  the  table,  revealing  an 
extremely  scantj^  grc}"  coiffure.  Lionel's  rage 
and  agonj^  at  this  accident  were  quite 
j^athetic,  and  were  not  at  all  lessened  by  the 
fact  that  his  mother  took  it  as  an  excellent 
joke. 

He  had  spoken  to  her  so  severely  about  it 
that  this  evening  she  came  into  the  room, 
with  one  hand  at  the  turban,  saying,  "  I 
assure  you,  Lionel,  it's  perfectly  safe,  for  I 
can  feel  several  of  the  pins  actually  running 
into  my  head." 

Lionel  replied,  with  great  solemnity,  that 
he  was  glad  to  hear  it. 

He  was  so  very  sensitive  and  priggish  and 
j^oung,  that  his  mother  would  have  laughed 
if  she  had  dared;  as  it  was,  she  only  per- 
mitted herself  a  smile  as  she  looked  up  at 
him  rather  deprecatingly,  as  they  drove  away 
together.  He  warned  her  on  the  brief  drive 
— to  be  sure,  it  was  quite  necessary— of 
several  things  it  would  be  much  better  if  she 
did  not  say;  and  she  replied,  with  a  twinkle  in 
her   humorous   eyes,    and   perhaps    a   shadow 


THE  CHANTRY  177 

iii  them  too,  that  she  really  would  try  to  re- 
member. 

One  other  guest  had  preceded  them  at  the 
Manor,  Dr.  Spencer. 

Lionel  Darbisher  said  afterwards  that 
PoUie's  drawing-room  set  his  teeth  on  edge. 
But  Spencer,  who  also  had  taste,  both  natural 
and  cultivated,  liked  it,  while  it  amused  him. 
That  is,  he  had  the  sort  of  affection  one  does 
have  for  homely,  ugly,  familiar  things — for 
the  great  drab  carpet  spread  with  magnolias; 
the  wool  covers  Pollie's  own  busy  hands  had 
worked  to  preserve  the  magnificence  of  the 
satin  and  rosewood  suite;  the  twin  sofas, 
also  wool-worked,  on  which  one  could  by  no 
means  lie;  the  cabinet  with  the  wax  roses  in 
it;  and  the  marble  mantelpiece,  where  a 
large  Dresden  china  shepherd  piped  to  a 
shepherdess  over  the  head  of  a  dainty  ala- 
baster lady,  holding  up  an  exquisitely 
wrought  lace  skirt,  under  a  glass  shade. 

Occasionally — not  often — when  Spencer 
dined  with  the  Latimers,  he  arrived  ten 
minutes  too  early,  and,  while  his  host  was 
engaged  in  the  solemn  business  of  getting  up 
the  wine,  spent  them  with  his  hostess. 

He  would  sit  on  the  edge  of  one  of  those 
uncomfortable  sofas,  playing  with  Dim's  silky 


178  BASSET 

ear,  while  Pollie,  almost  lost  in  the  depths 
of  a  great  chair  opposite,  lifted  her  ardent 
face  and  talked  to  him — as  one  who  has  been 
living  among  strangers  talks  to  a  friend,  re- 
found.  Spencer  did  not  himself  say  much — 
what  he  said,  he  noticed  she  remembered  and 
spoke  of  when  they  met  again — but,  reading 
his  Browning  long  after,  and  recalling  the 
soft  glow  and  change — the  wonder,  life, 
eagerness  in  her  face — he  thought  it  was 
not  only  Evelyn  Ho23e  who  was  made  of 
"  spirit,  fire  and  dew." 

But  politeness  had  not  permitted  him — or 
he  had  not  permitted  himself — to  be  more 
than  ten  minutes  too  soon,  and  the  Dar- 
bishers  came  in  and  were  introduced.  The 
onh"  other  guest  that  evening  was  Peter 
Grant,  who  was  late,  and  unconscious  of  it. 

Some  of  the  party  certainly  enjoj^ed  them- 
selves, but  Lionel  Darbisher  was  not  one  of 
them.  Mrs.  Darbisher  had  made  Harry 
laugh  consummately  before  he  had  finished 
ladling  out  the  soup;  and  the  fish  was  still 
on  the  table — soles  at  one  end,  turbot  at  the 
other — when  oNIrs.  Darbisher  was  clearly 
heard  by  the  whole  company  to  say,  "  ]\Iy 
son  Li  is  very  clever  indeed,  you  know,  ]Mr. 
Latimer — aren't  you,  Buppy?" 


THE  CHANTRY  179 

Now,  to  be  called  "  Li,"  with  its  reflection 
on  his  veracity,  was  annoying  to  Lionel,  but 
to  be  addressed  by  his  baby-name  "  Buppy," 
with  its  off^ensive  nearness  to  "  puppy,"  was 
worse;  while  even  a  person  neither  vain  nor 
young  would  have  felt  foolish  at  having  his 
cleverness  pointed  out  to  a  party  of  people 
who  had  obviously  not  noticed  it. 

He  said,  "Certainly  not,  ma'am!"  with 
great  indignation  and  a  very  hot   face. 

Mrs.  Darbisher  did  not  make  matters 
better  by  adding  that,  of  course,  Li's  was  not 
the  stupid  sort  of  cleverness  which  passes 
examinations,  and  that  he  had,  in  fact,  come 
down  from  Oxford  without  troubling  much 
about  them. 

By  this  time,  compassionate  Pollie  was 
really  sorry  for  the  unhappy  youth,  in  his 
resplendent  waistcoat  and  fashionable  black 
satin  stock;  Spencer,  who  was  peculiarly 
intolerant  of  silly  women,  felt  contemp- 
tuous of  the  mother;  Parson  Grant  noticed 
nothing;  Harry,  enjoying  himself  vastly,  was 
taking  wine  with  Mrs.  Darbisher,  and  leading 
her  on  to  fresh  witticisms  and  enormities; 
and  the  unhappiest  of  the  party  was  that 
humorous  lady  herself,  who  was  acutely  con- 
scious of  her  son's  disajjproval,  and  egged  on 


i8o  BASSET 

by  it  to  desperation  and  a  yet  more  reckless 
use  of  her  gift  of  making  other  people  laugh. 

When  the  women  had  gone  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  "  the  usual  procession  of 
bottles  .  .  .  with  their  Christian  names  in 
silver  round  their  necks  "  went  its  way  down 
the  table,  Spencer's  soft  heart,  and  recollec- 
tions of  his  own  youth  perhaps,  made  him 
draw  his  chair  to  young  Darbisher's,  and 
pour  a  little  oil  and  wine  into  the  boy's 
wounds  by  talking  to  him  as  if  he  were  ten 
years  older  than,  to  look  at  liim,  he  possibly 
could  be. 

Darbisher  was  really  going  to  be  clever, 
and  had  not  made  his  travels  with  his  eyes 
shut;  he  was  a  sportsman,  with  something 
besides  sport  to  talk  about;  and  Spencer  only 
smiled  inwardly  at  the  height  and  the 
breadth  of  his  ambitions.  For  at  two  and 
twenty  every  man  is  going  to  conquer  the 
world;  five  and  thirtj''  may  well  look 
back  compassionately  at  such  fine  dreams. 
Besides,  Spencer  liked  the  boy's  in- 
genuous face,  and  there  was  something 
rather  touching  in  that  youthful  conceit. 

Lionel  quite  began  to  enjo}^  liimself  pres- 
ently, when  he  got  hold  of  Parson  Grant  and 
poured  defiantly  into  his  old  ear  the  objec- 


THE  CHANTRY 


I8l 


tions  to  the  miraculous  which  Lionel  had 
obtained  from  his  Scotch  friend,  and  the 
Scotch  friend  from  Mr.  David  Hume. 

It  would  have  taken  a  very  outrageous 
scepticism  to  rouse  Peter.  He  had  no  argu- 
ments to  advance  in  favour  of  Balaam's  ass 
really  having  spoken,  or  Joshua's  sun  really 
having  stood  still,  except  that  he  supposed 
they  did,  as  the  people  who  were  there  at 
tlie  time  said  so.  Then  he  filled  his  glass, 
sipped  his  port,  and  asked  Lionel  if  the 
shooting  prospects  in  the  Chantry  coverts 
were  good. 

In  the  drawing-room,  Mrs.  Darbisher  had 
told  Pollie  all  Lionel's  history,  from  the  time 
he  was  in  long  clothes,  and  had  earnestly  be- 
sought her  advice  (like  all  people  who  con- 
stantly ask  advice,  Mrs.  Darbisher  never  took 
it)  as  to  the  best  way  of  dealing  with  a  son 
who  scorned  her  behests  and  scolded  her 
much  more  than  she  had  ever  dared  to  scold 
him. 

Mrs.  Darbisher's  extreme  volubility  saved 
Pollie  the  useless  trouble  of  giving  any 
counsel.  Just  before  talk  and  laughter  in  the 
hall,  heralded  the  approach  of  the  rest  of 
the  party,  ]\Irs.  Darbisher  hurriedly  said  she 
had  been  regretting  all  the  evening  that  Mr. 


1 82  BASSET 

Latimer,  pleasant  as  he  was,  was  alive  at  all, 
as  she  distinctly  saw  that  Pollie's  was  a 
character  any  woman  would  be  thankful  for 
in  her  son's  wife. 

Lionel  was  extremely  severe  and  silent  on 
the  homeward  drive;  and  when  his  mother 
said,  apparently  apropos  of  nothing,  but  in 
fact  in  allusion  to  the  turban,  "  I  assure  you, 
Buppy  dear, — that  is,  Lionel — it  didn't  even 
wobble,"  and  laughed  a  little,  he  received  the 
remark  with  perfect  disdain. 

Mrs.  Darbisher  was  awake  the  greater 
part  of  the  night,  admonishing  herself  as  an 
old  fool,  and  shedding  a  few  tears  over 
Lionel's  undutif ulness ;  while  Lionel  came 
down  to  breakfast,  after  a  very  good  eight 
hours'  sleep,  a  little  less  condemnatory,  and 
aware  that,  though  he  found  his  mother  an- 
noying, he  was  fond  of  her. 

It  was  rather  unfortunate  that  his  repent- 
ance took  the  form  of  accompanying  her  to 
the  Basset  shop  the  next  morning,  for,  into 
that  small,  dark,  sticky  emporium,  when  ISIrs. 
Darbisher  was  trying  to  think  what  she  had 
come  to  buy,  and  Lionel,  much  bored,  was 
looking  at  the  boots,  string  and  hams 
suspended  from  the  ceihng,  there  entered  two 
ladies. 


THE  CHANTRY  183 

Without  a  moment's  warning,  Mrs.  Dar- 
bisher  threw  her  arms  round  the  elder  of 
them,  would  have  kissed  her,  only  poke  bon- 
nets prevented,  and  said  impulsively,  "  My 
dear — now,  ai'e  you  Mary  Anne  or  Sophy? 
I  am  delighted  to  see  you!  And  who  ever 
would  have  thought  of  meeting  you  here!" 

Lionel  had  become  dreadfully  used  by 
now — that  is,  if  any  one  could  get  used 
to  such  things — to  his  mother  impulsively 
meeting  and  greeting  dearest  old  friends, 
warmly  asldng  them  to  stay  with  her,  and 
then  confessing  she  had  quite  forgotten  their 
names.  To  the  argument  that  one  does  not 
love  a  woman  less  because  her  name  is,  or  is 
not,  Jane  or  Matilda,  Lionel  listened  with 
very  scant  patience,  and  said  he  did  not  care 
to  have  people  invited  to  the  house— it  was 
not  his  house,  but  he  seldom  remembered 
that — whose  very  names  were  a  mystery. 

However,  on  this  occasion.  Miss  Pilking- 
ton,  for  it  was  she,  unravelled  the  knot  by 
saying  she  was  not  Sophy  or  Mary  Anne  but 
Rachel,  and  by  perfectly  recollecting  having 
met  Mrs.  Darbisher,  then  unmarried,  staying 
at  the  house  of  a  mutual  and  distant  cousin, 
some  five  and  twenty  years  earlier. 

Miss  Pilkington  was  a  good  deal  flustered; 


1 84  BASSET 

but  to  be  connected  with  the  Pilkingtons, 
however  remotely,  hall-marked  any  one  in 
her  eyes  as  solid  silver.  She  forgave  Mrs. 
Darbisher  that  undoubted  flightiness  of  man- 
ner and  appearance,  and  accepted  her 
promiscuous  invitations  quite  warmly. 

Lionel  was  so  annoyed  with  the  whole  i^ro- 
ceedings  that  he  continued  to  gaze  pointedly, 
with  a  heightened  colour  in  his  face,  at  the 
boots  and  hams;  and  never  once  looked  at 
Ann,  modest  and  charming  in  the  back- 
ground. Xor  did  he  particularly  look  at 
her  when  they  were  presently  introduced, 
being  entirely  engrossed  in  his  anxiety  to 
get  his  mother  away  and  prevent  her  from 
making  herself — or  was  it  from  making  him? 
— absurd.  He  was  decidedly  gruff  as  they 
walked  home,  and  when  JNIrs.  Darbisher 
rashly  observed  how  very  fond  she  had 
always  been  of  Rachel  Pilkington,  could  not 
help  observing,  "  You  seem  to  have  got  on 
verj^  well  without  her  for  the  last  quarter 
of  a  century,  ma'am." 

Darbisher  was  not  present  when  ^liss 
Pilkington  and  Ann  paid  their  duty  call  at 
the  Chantry.  Good-naturedly  warned  by 
Harry  Latimer  of  the  exceeding  tedium  of 
Miss  Pilkington's  tea-parties,  he  declined  to 


THE  CHANTRY  185 

attend  the  first  of  those  functions,  and  his 
mother  went  alone. 

Old  Mrs.  Benet,  meeting  Ann  one  day — 
Ann  was  not  sure  that  she  very  much  liked 
Mrs.  Benet — inquired  if  she  knew  the  new 
young  man  up  at  the  Chantry,  and  when  Ann 
said  she  had  onl}^  seen  him  once  for  two 
minutes,  Mrs.  Benet  observed,  "  Well,  that's  a 
pity,  that  is;  he  ought  to  be  in  love  with  you 
by  this  time ;  "  and  Ann  blushed,  without  look- 
ing foolish,  as  any  one  else  would  have  done. 

In  due  course,  she  and  Miss  Pilkington 
spent  a  IMay  evening  with  the  Darbishers; 
the  two  elders  recalled  old  times  in  Lady 
Lucy's  parlour,  while  Lionel  took  Ann  round 
the  rose-garden. 

As  his  attention  was  not  so  much  centred 
on  himself  this  time,  he  perceived  what  a 
lovely  little  creature — she  just  reached 
Lionel's  stalwart  shoulder — Ann  was.  Be- 
fore they  left  the  parlour,  she  had  drawn  a 
book  out  of  the  shelf — had  Pollie  Latimer 
told  her  of  Lionel's  literary  aspirations,  or 
was  it  merely  a  bow  she  always  drew  at  a 
venture? — and  asked  him  if  he  were  a  great 
reader.  As  they  strolled  up  and  down  the 
sundial  path,  Lionel  was  soon  pouring  into 
her  ear  some  of  his  cleverest  literary  aspira- 


1 86  BASSET 

tions  and  ideas;  and  found  her  calm  silence 
and  sympathy  very  soothing  after  his 
mother's  commonplace,  and  often  very  com- 
monsense,  criticisms,  beginning,  "  But  Buppy 
dear,"  with  which  she  brought  his  fine 
theories  down,  with  a  thud,  from  the  reahns 
of  fancy  to  the  hard  and  vulgar  earth  of  fact. 

When  they  were  recalled  to  the  parlour — 
by  JNIrs.  Darbisher  vaguely  waving  a  parasol 
in  their  direction  out  of  the  glass-door — that 
ladj^'s  irresponsible  tongue  was  wagging  on 
merril}^  as  usual,  while  what  should  have  been 
a  precise  bow  in  her  cap  had  come  unstitched 
and  was  falling  over  her  ample  face  in  a 
streamer. 

It  was  almost  impossible  for  her  son  to 
help  comparing  mentally  JNIiss  Thornbery's 
composed  neatness  with  the  maternal  un- 
tidiness. Perhaps  Mrs.  Darbisher — unwise 
jieople  being  often  very  sharp — detected  the 
comparison,  for  when  the  visitors  had  gone, 
she  looked  attentively  at  Lionel,  and  sighed 
as  she  said,  "  A  very  dainty,  sweet  girl,  I 
think,  don't  you,  dear?" — and  Lionel  had 
the  temerity  to  say  that  he  had  not  noticed. 

He  was  at  some  pains  to  account  for  his 
ready  acceptance  of  JNIiss  Pilkington's  next 
invitation;  having  dubbed  the  first  tea-jiarty 


THE  CHANTRY  187 

entirely  beneath  the  attention  of  his  sex; 
and  Mrs.  Darbisher  only  just  strangled  in 
the  utterance  a  rash  remark  on  the  extra 
smartness  of  Lionel's  attire,  as  he  and  she 
started  for  that  festivity. 

Next,  there  came  an  expedition  to  Dil- 
chester — in  which  Pollie,  the  chaperon,  drove 
Ann  into  that  town  in  the  low  phaeton, 
Latimer  and  Darbisher  riding — with  some 
shopping  and  a  five  o'clock  dinner  at  "  The 
Case  is  Altered  "  as  goal. 

Pollie  had  made  up  her  mind  as  to  Ann's 
character  by  this  time — and  kept  her  own 
counsel.  Life  had  taught  her  nothing  if  not 
the  perfect  good  nature  and  obstinacy  of 
Harry's  judgment  of  his  friends,  and  she  did 
not  try  to  alter  it.  "  A  very  pretty  girl,  and 
all  you  women  are  so  deucedly  jealous," 
would  have  been  Harry's  comment  on  any 
criticism  of  hers. 

She  was  earnestly  engaged  on  the  drive 
in  managing  tlie  cobs.  Darbisher  rode  on 
Ann's  side  of  the  carriage,  and  said  nothing 
in  particular — or  the  nothings  that  mean 
everything.  When  they  pulled  up  at  "  The 
Case  is  Altered,"  the  wind  had  a  little 
rumpled  Pollie's  ciu'ls,  and  the  exertion  of 
keeping    the    whip    hand    of    the    cobs    had 


1 88  BASSET 

heightened  her  colour,  while  Ann's  fair  braids, 
under  a  copious  veil  and  bonnet,  were  as  un- 
ruffled as  herself. 

As  they  were  alighting,  who  should  walk 
by  but  JNIark  Spencer,  who  had  been  to  see  a 
IJatient  in  the  town.  Hospitable  Harry  at 
once  asked  him  to  join  their  party  at  dinner. 

Years  afterwards,  Spencer  told  the  only 
confidant — or  rather,  the  nearest  approach  to 
a  confidant  he  ever  had  in  the  world — that  at 
that  dinner  he  perceived  and  knew,  with  the 
absolute  certainty  one  does  sometimes  know 
entirel}^  unprovable  things,  that  INIiss  Ann 
had  conveyed  to  young  Darbisher  the  impres- 
sion that  he,  Spencer,  was  her  unsuccessful 
wooer;  and  that,  therefore,  Darbisher  threw 
at  Spencer,  when  he  was  not  gazing  en- 
raptured and  devoutly  at  Ann,  looks  of 
the  greatest  affront  and  indignation.  The 
thought  of  them  amused  INIark  Spencer,  even 
after  much  lapse  of  time.  Old  Jane  Benet, 
raising  her  keen  eyes  to  his  face  for  a  minute, 
said,  "  I  suppose  Pollie  Latimer  wasn't  silly 
enough  to  be  taken  in  by  that  girl's  non- 
sense?"— and  Mark  answered  he  thought 
]Mrs.  Latimer  was  not  often  taken  in. 

She,  as  well  as  her  husband,  and  JNIark  too, 
somehow  liked  Lionel  at  that  dinner  for  the 


THE  CHANTRY  189 

ardour  and  thoroughness  of  his  mushroom 
passion.  He  was  so  hot  and  sincere  and 
transparent  in  it,  those  would  have  been  hard 
hearts  indeed  that  did  not  desire  to  help  it 
along. 

After  dinner,  when  the  whole  party  walked 
to  see  the  ruined  monastery  half  a  mile  from 
the  town,  the  three  elders  drojiped  con- 
sideratety  behind.  As  they  talked,  they  were 
all  conscious  of  Lionel's  handsome  head  bend- 
ing over  his  companion,  as  he  poured  into  her 
small  ear  all  his  fine  dreams  and  egotisms, 
and  she  listened  in  absorbed  silence.  Or  was 
she  not  listening  at  all,  but  simply  going  on 
mentally  arranging  her  modest  wardrobe  or 
finances?  Anyhow,  before  they  reached  the 
ruins,  Lionel  was  quoting  poetry  to  her,  and 
she  was  inquiring,  with  a  naivete  any  bud- 
ding author  must  have  found  adorable, 
whether  the  lines  were  Lord  Byron's  or  his 
own? 

Of  the  three  behind,  Harry  said — his 
vocabulary  was  not  at  all  extensive — that 
Miss  Thornbery  was  an  uncommon  pretty 
girl,  wasn't  she? 

Mark  replied  he  thought  her  face  lacking 
in  expression  and  change;  and  Harry  asked 
what   the   deuce   anybody   wanted   a   face   to 


I90  BASSET 

change  for  when  it  began  by  being  as  good- 
looking  as  that? 

Pollie  did  not  say  much.  Perhaps  she 
recalled  the  days,  not  so  very  long  ago,  when 
she  too  was  a  girl — only  not,  of  course, 
thought  straightforward  and  clear-seeing 
Pollie,  half  such  a  pretty  girl  as  Ann.  Once, 
looking  at  the  pair  ahead,  she  caught  her 
breath  in  a  sigh,  as  if  she  envied  them  their 
dream.  Spencer  turned  for  a  moment  and 
looked  at  her;  and  Pollie  drew  out  her  watch, 
suspended  round  her  neck  on  a  long  hair 
chain,  and  said  practically  they  must  hurry 
or  the}^  would  be  late  getting  home. 

After  that,  there  were  many  of  "  JNIay's 
warm,  slow,  yellow,  moonlit  summer  nights," 
when  that  excellently  good-natured  Harry 
insisted  on  having  young  Darbisher  to  dinner, 
and  INIiss  Ann  to  meet  him;  and  after  dinner, 
made  short  work  of  the  solemn  conventions 
of  the  day  which  decreed  that  it  was  at  once 
unwholesome  and  improper  to  walk  in  the 
garden  in  the  evening. 

When  Ann  was  due  to  drink  evening  tea 
at  the  IManor — one  drank  tea  in  those  days, 
and  did  not  merely  have  it — Harry  ac- 
quainted Darbisher,  and  he  dropped  in — ^by 
accident. 


THE  CHANTRY  191 

That  naif  young  gentleman  was  always 
making  excuses  to  buy  things  at  the  shop  he 
had  despised,  in  the  hope,  not  disappointed, 
of  meeting  Ann;  or  hanging  about  the 
Benets'  gate,  exchanging  the  time  of  day  with 
the  old  Doctor,  with  one  eye  and  all  his 
attention  on  the  White  Cottage. 

He  scowled  indignantly  now  not  only  at 
Spencer,  but  at  Parson  Grant;  and  Spencer 
realized — old  Peter  of  course  observed  noth- 
ing— that  Ann  had  somehow  managed  to 
translate  her  one  brief  visit  to  the  Rectory 
into  a  declaration  of,  at  least,  admiration  on 
the  part  of  the  Rector. 

Boxes  of  resplendent  raiment  arrived  from 
London,  and  the  same  vanity  which,  a  little 
while  ago,  had  given  Lionel  every  satisfaction 
in  his  appearance,  now  made  him  agonizingly 
diffident  concerning  it.  Having  severely  ab- 
stained from  church-going  for  the  express 
pleasure  of  shocking  the  church-goers,  he  now 
began  to  exercise  the  greatest  ingenuity  in 
timing  his  arrival  and  departure  from  that 
building  to  coincide  exactly  with  Miss  Pil- 
kington's  and  her  niece's.  At  home,  he  spent 
hours  locked  in  his  sitting-room  composing 
verses — verses  which  were  just  good  enough 
to  make  one  confidently  hope  that  their  writer 


192  BASSET 

would  soon  see  how  bad  they  were,  and 
take  to  some  other  pursuit.  Lionel  had, 
indeed,  his  complaint  very  thoroughly;  all 
the  usual  symptoms;  and  the  rash  very  fully 
out. 

jMeanwhile,  nobody,  or  hardly  anybody, 
had  even  thought  of  ]Mrs.  Darbisher. 

That  vague,  sharp,  roving  eye  of  hers  had 
soon  detected  that  the  heart  her  bo}^  w^anted 
was  a  cold  and  shallow  little  heart;  that  the 
great  sorrows  and  joys  of  life  would  leave 
Ann  unmoved  and  impervious.  Once,  in 
early  daj^s,  when  there  was  still  time,  she  did 
venture  to  suggest  to  Lionel  that  she  did  not 
think  ^liss  Thornbery  had  much  feeling;  but 
Lionel's  wrath  caused  her  hurriedly  and 
foolishlj^  to  eat  her  words.  What,  after  all, 
wise  and  resolute  people  have  to  do  she,  too, 
found  herself  doing — helplessly  looking  on; 
or,  what  was  worse,  sitting  at  home,  when 
Lionel  was  out,  fancj^ing  what  she  did  not 
see.  She  was  not  sufficiently  machiavellian 
to  invite  Ann  to  the  Chantry,  morning, 
noon  and  night,  and  surfeit  Lionel  with  her 
prettiness  and  her  sameness;  and  she  was 
not  bold  enough  —  or  sill}^  enough  —  to 
thwart  him  and  object  to  Ann  plainly  and 
openly. 


THE  CHANTRY  193 

One  afternoon,  Mrs.  Latimer,  coming  to 
call,  found  her  with  traces  of  the  unbecom- 
ing tears  of  real  grief  on  her  face,  her  shawl 
slipping  from  her  shoulders,  and  capstrings 
floating  with  a  vague  melancholy.  She  did 
not  conceal  the  tears,  or  directly  allude  to 
them;  but  presently  she  asked  Pollie  what 
she  thought  of  Ann's  character. 

Pollie  tried  to  be  consolatory,  but  she  was 
too  honest  to  convey  the  impression  that  she 
liked  Ann  very  particularly.  A  gleam  of 
humour  came  into  Mrs.  Darbisher's  wet  and 
wandering  eye,  and  she  said  how  much  she 
wished  Mr.  Grant  or  Dr.  Spencer  had  proved 
— more  susceptible.  Pollie  did  not  respond 
to  this  aspiration;  she  only  said,  in  her  down- 
right, practical  way — 

"  But,  as  you  say,  Mrs.  Darbisher,  your 
son  is  entirely  dependent  on  you,  he  cannot 
marry  without  your  consent;"  and  Julia 
Darbisher,  looking  absently  round  for  her. 
handkerchief  to  remove  the  last  tear,  re- 
plied— 

"Ah!  but  then,  my  dear,  he  can  make 
me  give  it." 

Of  course,  that  proved  to  be  the  case. 

Only  two  or  three  evenings  later,  Lionel, 
who  had  been  out,  unaccounted  for,  all  day, 


194  BASSET 

came  into  Lady  Lucy's  parlour  about  nine 
o'clock,  bringing  his  news  which  was  no  news. 
JNlrs.  Darbisher  was  putting  a  few  stitches, 
absently,  in  some  needlework;  she  hated 
needlework,  but  as  it  was  then  de  rigueur 
for  all  women  to  do  it,  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  continually  beginning  pieces  of  embroid- 
ery, and  leaving  them  about  the  room,  half 
finished,  with  the  point  of  the  needle  upper- 
most to  catch  the  unwary.  The  candles  were 
not  lit,  but  it  was  still  light  enough  for  her 
to  see  Lionel's  face,  and  before  he  had  uttered 
three  sentences,  she  got  up — with  reels  of 
silk,  scissors  and  thimbles,  rolling  off  her  lap 
on  to  the  floor — and  kissed  her  boy  with  her 
usual  injudicious  warmth. 

To-night,  however,  he  magnanimously 
overlooked  the  remarkable  angle  at  which  the 
embrace  set  her  turban,  and  a  certain  damp- 
ness on  her  cheeks,  and  was  soon  pacing  up 
and  down  the  room,  eagerly  enumerating  all 
Ann's  virtues,  and  every  now  and  then,  quite 
unconsciousty,  stooping  to  pick  up  some  of 
the  needlework  appliances  on  the  floor.  He 
finished  by  saying  that  Everybody — every- 
body, that  convenient  generality  which,  as 
often  as  not,  means  nobody — Everybody  says 
it  is  a  good  thing  to  marry  young,  and  it  will 


THE  CHANTRY  195 

be  so  nice  for  you  to  have  a  daughter  to 
look  after  you  and  help  you. 

At  this  juncture,  Mrs.  Darbisher  was  feel- 
ing about  vaguely,  and  with  difficulty  for  she 
was  not  slim,  for  the  scissors  under  her  chair, 
and  her  answer  was  not  audible.  She  did 
not,  indeed,  say  very  much  till  the  candles 
had  been  brought,  and  Lionel's  excitement 
had  subsided  sufficiently  to  let  him  sit  down 
and  merely  relieve  his  feelings  by  rapidly 
moving  about,  as  he  talked,  the  pens  and  trays 
on  the  writing-table.  His  real  good  self  was 
touched  not  a  little — and  his  conceit  and  the 
selfishness  of  the  most  blissfully  selfish  of  all 
human  conditions  drojDped  from  him  for  a 
moment — when  he  and  his  mother  came  to 
discuss  money  matters,  and  she  proposed,  not 
with  her  usual  impulsiveness,  but  as  one  who 
had  counted  the  cost,  to  make  over  to  the 
young  couple  the  half  of  her  kingdom— 
the  half  being  about  five  hundred  a  year. 
Lionel's  gratitude  for  that  liberality — after- 
wards slightly  curbed  by  solicitors — was  spoilt 
for  her  when  she  stated  that  she  would  not 
live  with  him  and  Ann,  and  she  saw  that  he 
was  grateful  for  that  too. 

Before  they  went  to  bed — very  late — 
Lionel  was  again  dilating  on  Ann's  charms 


196  BASSET 

of  mind  and  character — the  others  were  cer- 
tainly self-evident — as  if  with  an  actual  dis- 
putant; and  it  occurred  to  his  mother  that 
he  might  bj^  chance  be  arguing  down  some 
faint  doubt  in  his  own  mind,  and  not  only 
the  decided  doubt  in  hers. 

"  Ann  is  coming  to  see  you  early  to- 
morrow," he  said;  and  he  suggested,  as  tact- 
fully and  tentatively  as  he  could,  that  his 
mother  should  wear  the  brown  dress  as  being 
so  much — well,  tidier  than  the  others. 

There  was  an  undoubted  twinkle  in  her 
eye — on  the  top  of  a  tear,  perhaps — as  she 
said,  "  Bup — Lionel  dear,  I  shall  try  to  do 
3'ou  credit." 

Certainly,  if  she  was  not  all  she  ought  to 
have  been,  on  that  interview  on  the  morrow, 
Ann  was — modest,  but  not  foolish;  meekly 
lovely  to  look  at;  and  of  course,  having  the 
blood  of  Pilkingtons  in  her  veins,  perfectly 
a  lady.  Julia  Darbisher  knew  she  ought  to 
be  thankful  that  she  was  not  embracing  a 
kitchenmaid — for  she  knew  she  would  have 
been  embracing  her  if  Lionel  had  elected  her 
to  be  his  wife.  He  was  absorbingly  proud  of 
the  wife  he  had  chosen.  ]Mrs.  Darbisher  was 
quite  glad  of  an  excuse  to  leave  them  and  go 
upstairs,  stumbling  over  her  suitable  brown 


THE  CHANTRY  197 

silk  dress  on  the  way,  that  she  might  unearth 
from  a  strange  medley  of  possessions  some 
fine  old  lace  and  the  family  rubies. 

Ann's  lovely  eyes  brightened  as  these 
treasures  were  produced.  It  is  certainly  not 
against  a  woman's  character  that  she  should 
be  aware  of  the  difference  between  rose- 
point  and  "  only  Hamilton  " ;  but  Mrs.  Dar- 
bisher  was  surprised,  considering  the  strait- 
ened circumstances  of  Ann's  bringing-up, 
that  she  evinced  so  sound  a  knowledge  of  the 
value  of  the  filmy  fabric  in  front  of  her. 
Lionel,  taking  the  rubies  out  of  their  cases, 
said  of  course  the  setting  was  old-fashioned 
and  might  be  altered,  but  that  he  himself 
liked  it.  Mrs.  Darbisher  also  liked  it.  But, 
somehow,  before  Ann  left,  they  had  all  agreed 
the  rubies  were  to  be  sent  to  London  to  be 
reset — in  the  garish  and  dreadful  mode  of 
the  day. 

Of  all  Basset,  Miss  Pilkington  alone  had 
the  simplicity  to  be  surprised  at  Ann's  en- 
gagement. Since  Lionel  had  taken  to  coming 
to  church,  she  had  extended  to  him  her  warm- 
est trust  and  liking.  The  Thornberys  could 
hardly  help  feeling  relieved  and  thankful  that 
their  daughter  was  going  to  be  supported 
permanently    and    comfortably    by    another 


198  BASSET 

than  themselves.  For  many  a  girl  of  Ann's 
generation,  marriage  actually  was,  as  Char- 
lotte Collins  had  declared  it,  "  the  only  hon- 
ourable provision  for  well-educated  young 
women  of  small  fortune,  and  .  .  .  their 
best  preservative  from  want." 

Mrs.  Benet,  meeting  Ann  in  the  road  the 
day  after  the  engagement  was  announced, 
simply  said,  "Oh  ho!  so  it's  come  off  all 
right,  has  it?"  which  Ann  felt,  as  indeed  it 
was,  to  be  a  rude,  blunt  way  of  putting 
things. 

The  old  Doctor  patted  her  shoulder,  and 
made  a  small  joke,  and  thought  she  blushed 
very  becomingly;  and  his  wife  said  medita- 
tively to  him  when  they  got  home,  "  I 
suppose  a  silly  old  man's  always  taken  in  by 
a  pretty  face." 

And  Richard  answered,  "  Not  so  often  as 
you  might  think,  Jeannie." 

Mark  Spencer  felt  absolutely  certain,  when 
he  congratulated  INIiss  Thornbery,  that  she 
had  not  only  made  Darbisher  believe,  but  by 
now  comfortably  believed  herself,  that  he, 
Spencer,  would  have  married  her  if  she  would 
have  had  him.  This  conviction  used  to  shake 
him  with  silent  amusement  as  he  sat  poring 
over   those    "  doctor's    stuffs "    in    their   zinc 


THE  CHANTRY  199 

trays  at  Myrtle  Cottage  in  the  evenings. 
Parson  Grant  forgot  to  offer  any  congratu- 
lations at  all.  That  omission  was  perhaj)s  at- 
tributed to  pique. 

Soon,  the  question  of  wedding  presents 
pleasantly  agitated  peaceful  Basset,  like  a 
ripple  on  a  lake. 

Harry  Latimer  drove  himself  up  to  Lon- 
don, and  bought  a  centre  ornament  for  the 
dining-room  table  consisting  of  very  tall 
silver  cupids,  or  angels,  bearing  on  their 
wings  a  vast  receptacle,  also  silver,  for  trifle. 
Pollie  presented  the  Paisley  shawl  without 
which  no  woman's  married  happiness  in  that 
day  was  complete.  Spencer  tried  to  combine 
in  his  x^resent  of  a  writing-table  something 
that  would  please  the  bride's  predilection  for 
the  showy — she  surely  had  that  predilection? 
— and  the  bridegroom's  better  taste. 

Mrs.  Benet  caused  herself  to  be  carried  by 
the  gig  into  Dilchester,  where  she  spent  a 
long  and  thrillingly  interesting  day,  shop- 
ping; buying  first  a  vast  wedding-bonnet  for 
herself,  on  which  fruit,  flowers,  blonde,  gos- 
samer, and  feathers  were  heaped  in  a  quite 
reckless  profusion;  and  then,  after  some 
cogitation,  purchasing  the  wedding  present — 
a  large  china  lady,  clad  in  a  short  but  not  in- 


200  BASSET 

decent  pink  shirt,  and  listening  attentively  to 
a  shell. 

The  Doctor  and  Maggie  were  both  called 
into  the  clammy  closeness  of  the  parlour  to 
inspect  this  offering.  jNIaggie  said,  "  Lor!  " 
and  declared  herself  that  glad  she  was  not 
going  to  have  the  dusting  of  it. 

"  Verj^  unique  indeed,  Jeannie,  I  should  say 
— very  unique,"  was  the  Doctor's  observation; 
and  seeing  the  word  "  oNIiranda  "  at  the  lady's 
base,  he  added  that  it  had  escaped  liim  for  the 
moment  who  INIiranda  was. 

"  That's  for  them  to  find  out,"  said  INIrs. 
Benet  firmly,  as  if  she  were  setting  the  bridal 
pair  a  conundrum. 

INIiss  Pilkington  of  course  gave  Ann  every- 
thing Sarah  would  allow  her  to  part  with. 
The  Thornbery  brothers  and  sisters  sent  small 
home-made  offerings,  and  Rachel  wondered  a 
little  if  Ann  quite  remembered  the  self-denial 
and  labour  those  poor  presents  cost. 

Eliza  of  Dilchester,  who,  with  other  faults, 
had  the  Pilkington  failing  of  excessive  gen- 
erosity, contributed  five  pounds  towards  the 
trousseau.  That  Ann  made  the  very  best  use 
of  the  very  little  money  she  had  to  devote  to 
this  end,  is  as  certain  as  that  little  ]Miss  Fitten 
grew  more  thin,  nerv^ous  and  anemic  than  ever 


THE  CHANTRY  201 

in  the  strain  of  carrying  out  her  ideas.  Mrs. 
Latimer  lent  most  of  her  garments  as  patterns. 
Mrs.  Darbisher  offered  Ann  half  the  silks  and 
shawls  in  a  wardrobe  kept  in  a  condition  Ann 
rightly  thought  deplorable;  just  as  she  was 
always  trying  to  make  over  to  Lionel  the 
family  silver,  then  in  a  London  bank. 

He  declined  to  take  that  present,  saying, 
"  We  certainlj^  shan't  consent  to  rob  my 
mother  any  further,  shall  we,  Ann?  " — and 
Ann  said,  "  Of  course  not,"  with  a  pretty 
emphasis  which  did  not  prevent  the  idea  oc- 
curring to  Mrs.  Darbisher's  mind  that  Ann 
privately  thought  a  little  contemptuously  of 
her  for  offering  so  much,  and  of  Lionel  for 
not  accepting  it. 

To  be  sure,  his  mother  would  have  cut  off 
her  head  and  given  it  to  him  readily  enough, 
only  she  knew  he  would  think  the  gift  empty 
and  worthless. 

A  dreadful  restlessness  consumed  her  in 
these  days.  She  was  ashamed  of  the  maternal 
jealousy — if,  indeed,  jealousy  it  was  that 
made  it  painful  to  her  to  see  Lionel  and  Ann 
wandering,  absorbed  in  each  other,  in  the 
rose  garden.  To  escape  them  and  the  feeling, 
she  paid  calls  in  Basset  at  all  sorts  of  un- 
conventional hom's — always  absently  leaving 


202  BASSET 

in  her  train,  a  glove,  a  parasol,  or  a  scarf — 
and  was  everywhere  more  irresponsibly  amus- 
ing than  ever.  Harry  Latimer,  who  was 
wont  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat  before  the  ad- 
vance of  callers,  left  special  instructions  with 
the  parlourmaid  that  he  was  to  be  sought 
till  found  whenever  ]Mrs.  Darbisher  arrived. 
If  her  humour  at  this  time  constantly  outran 
her  discretion,  in  a  manner  which  would  have 
earned  Lionel's  sternest  filial  disapproval,  at 
least  not  a  word  ever  tripped  off  her  tongue 
in  criticism  of  her  son's  choice;  while  that 
torrent  of  liveliness  would  naturally  be  taken 
as  a  proof  she  rejoiced  in  it. 

Mrs.  Latimer,  holding  her  hand  to  say 
good-bye  after  one  of  these  visits,  was  sud- 
denly struck  with  the  idea  that  she  had 
grown  much  thinner  than  when  she  first 
came  to  Basset,  and  that  her  eyes  had  a 
sleepless  look.  She  said  so,  in  her  candid 
fashion;  and  at  once  felt  that  Mrs.  Darbisher 
was  not  pleased  at  her  perspicacity. 

Harry  came  in  at  that  moment. 

It  had  just  been  decided  that,  owing  to 
the  minute  size  of  the  White  Cottage,  Ann 
was  to  be  married  from  the  Manor,  and  that 
a  week  before  the  wedding  INIrs.  Latimer  was 
to  give  a  festal  wedding  diimer-party. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SIR   JOHN 

It  was  now  some  four  and  twenty  years  since 
Peter  Grant  had  been  clapped  on  the  back  by 
his  young  cousin,  John  Railton,  and  offered 
the  Cliurch  as  a  career. 

When  John's  mother,  Lady  Lucy,  died, 
the  boy  was  left  to  a  father,  not  of  evil  life, 
but  of  evil  temper,  who,  himself  a  spoilt  child, 
was  determined  his  son  should  not  be.  A 
long  course  of  i^etty  tyranny  and  bullying 
something  soured  John's  nature  and  em- 
bittered his  view  of  life,  but  it  at  least  made 
him  neither  liar  nor  slave. 

Once  at  Oxford,  and  in  independent  pos- 
session of  his  mother's  small  fortune,  he  of 
course  misused  the  liberty  and  money  which 
he  had  never  been  taught  to  use.  His  wild- 
ness  was  far  more  thorough  and  extensive 
than  Peter  Grant's,  for  Jack's  mind  was  not 
*'  a  little  balanced  with  stupidity,"  as  Peter's 
had  been.  Jack's  tandem  was  one  of  the 
sights  of  the  University — tandems  were  not 

203 


204  BASSET 

a  forbidden  jo}^  there  until  183G.  He  might 
have  said  with  Edgar,  "  Wine  loved  I  deeply, 
dice  dearly."  There  was  not  a  prize-fight  or 
a  cock-fight  within  miles  at  which  one  might 
not  have  seen  Jack's  lean,  handsome,  and 
rather  sinister  young  face.  As  to  head-work, 
he  had  plenty  of  brains,  and  passed  the 
absolutely  necessary  examinations  without 
much  trouble. 

Before  he  came  down  from  Oxford  the  old 
Baronet  was  dead — an  event  at  which  John 
neither  felt  nor  feigned  any  particular  sor- 
row. 

Young  Sir  John,  now  a  wealthy  man, 
came  up  to  town,  and  there  amused  him- 
self with,  and  as,  the  other  j^oung  bloods 
of  the  day.  Once,  at  least,  he  figured  with 
a  couple  of  friends  at  Bow^  Street,  charged 
with  wrenching  knockers  off  street  doors,  and 
assaulting  the  police.  Then  he  paid  a  fine 
for  maliciously  upsetting  a  shell-fish  stall; 
did  it  again,  and  paid  the  fine,  doubled.  One 
had  to  be  young,  and  young  in  the  epoch 
when  the  obvious  and  elementary  practical 
joke  appealed  to  almost  everybody  as  wit,  to 
extract  from  it  the  uproarious  mirth  John 
and  his  friends  certainly  extracted.  Soon 
the   young   baronet   was   much   heard   of   at 


SIR  JOHN  205 

Newmarket  and  Brooks',  and  the  dingy 
green-room  of  a  certain  theatre.  The  green- 
room was  the  antechamber  to  a  noisy  and 
brief  esclandre  of  a  sentimental  character. 

Sir  John  went  abroad,  travelled,  sobered; 
returned  home,  taking  a  fitful  interest  in 
politics  and  literature,  breakfasted  now  and 
again  with  Rogers  or  at  Holland  House; 
dropped  the  green-room,  and  resumed  gam- 
bling and  racing,  more  temperately. 

His  own  natural  good  parts  made  him 
acceptable  in  the  society  of  people  distin- 
guished in  mind  or  achievement;  only  he 
himself  remained  always  dilettante,  achieving 
nothing.  Was  it  that  ample  means  made  him 
lazy,  or  that  the  cynicism  in  his  nature  caused 
him  to  doubt  the  value  of  the  success  he  saw 
his  compeers  sacrificing  ease,  and  sometimes 
honour,  to  achieve?  He  would  sit  in  the 
midst  of  a  clever  company,  able  to  hold  his 
own  in  the  conversation,  and  by  no  means 
always  troubling  to  hold  it — a  long,  rather 
distinguished  figure,  carelessly  well  dressed, 
with  the  curl  on  his  lips,  and  something 
steadfast  and  pleasant  in  the  eyes.  It  was 
said  by  those  of  his  friends  who  had  tested  it, 
that  his  generosity  was  great;  and  there  was 
a  kind  of  softness   and  reverence   far  away 


2o6  BASSET 

down  in  his  heart  which,  perhaps,  the  memory 
of  his  mother  kept  there,  and  which  was,  in 
fact,  a  part  of  his  inheritance  from  her.  He 
had  agreeable,  shabby,  bachelor  quarters  in 
town;  a  terrible  family  mansion  in  Norfolk, 
and  the  Chantry,  Basset. 

In  those  days,  noblesse  rarely  obliged  the 
young  noble  to  do  anything  but  amuse  him- 
self; and  the  very  class  which  most  suffered 
from  his  negligence,  seems  most  to  have 
admired  the  sj)lash  and  dash,  the  extrava- 
gance and  magnificence  which  kei)t  their 
lord  from  mending  their  broken  fences,  and 
rebuilding  their  tumbling  cottages.  The 
villagers  in  Basset,  at  least,  quite  enjoyed 
in  Sir  John's  youth  the  highly  coloured 
stories  of  liis  losses  at  plaj^  and  his  reck- 
lessness on  the  turf;  and  when  he  came  to 
the  Chantry  with  his  horses,  his  man  cook 
from  London,  his  foreign  valet,  and  his  air 
of  the  great  world,  they  were  quite  grateful 
to  him  for  dissipating  the  w^orst  evil  of  the 
country   village — dullness. 

By  the  time  he  was  forty  he  had  become 
a  far  more  conscientious  landowner;  and 
though  his  visits  to  Basset  w^ere  very  short, 
they  were  more  frequent,  and  had  business 
as  an  object. 


SIR  JOHN  207 

On  the  day  before  the  Manor  was  to 
give  the  wedding  dinner-party,  Parson  Grant 
actually  had  a  letter  which  was  not  from 
Maria,  now  his  sole  correspondent,  and  found 
by  a  hasty  scrawl  on  a  vast  sheet  of  paper — 
written  in  the  immense  hurry  of  the  person 
who  has  nothing  definite  to  do— that  Sir 
John  proposed,  as  the  Chantry  was  let, 
damn  it,  to  descend  that  very  day  upon 
the  hospitality  of  the  Rector  and  the 
Rectory;  that  cursed  PhillijDS — who  was 
Sir  John's  agent  as  well  as  the  Latimers' — 
requesting  the  Baronet's  presence  to  see  to 
some  of  his  outlying  properties.  Sir  John 
never  spared  Peter's  cloth  either  in  speech 
or  writing;  after  all,  he  had,  so  to  speak, 
himself  cut  out  that  cloth  for  Peter's  wear; 
besides,  Peter  must  be  used  to  strong 
language — "  our  armies  swore  terribly  in 
Flanders." 

A  postscript  announced,  "  Have  not  for- 
gotten your  cook — am  bringing  Adolphe ;  " 
which  meant  that  Sir  John,  on  his  last  visit 
to  the  Rectory,  had  suffered  so  grievously  at 
the  hands  of  the  Rectory  factotum,  that  this 
time  he  purposed  to  be  accompanied  by  his 
own — a  perfectly  clever,  adaptable,  dislionest, 
good-natured  foreigner — of  no  distinct  nation- 


2o8  BASSET 

ality — able  to  talk,  rather  ill,  any  language, 
and  to  cook,  admirably  well,  any  food. 

Peter  timidly  announced  to  his  house* 
hold  that  Sir  John  was  to  be  expected  that 
evening;  himself  assisted  to  prepare  the  guest 
chamber,  by  moving  the  lumber  and  boxes 
it  contained  into  a  corner;  and,  meeting 
Pollie,  surprised  and  surpassed  himself  by 
having  the  readiness  and  aplomb  to  ask  if 
he  might  bring  Sir  John  to  the  dinner-party 
on  the  morrow. 

.  The  dinner-hour  was  fashionably  late  at 
six,  when  it  was  still  broad  dajdight,  and 
there  was  no  need  of  the  tall,  best  wax 
candles  in  the  great  silver  candelabra. 

Sir  John,  sitting  with  his  hostess  on  one 
side — he  liked  Pollie  for  her  charm  of  perfect 
naturalness,  and  respected  her  for  the  excel- 
lence of  her  dinners — and  Mrs.  Darbisher  on 
the  other,  was  fully,  if  idly,  engaged  in 
listening  to  the  sallies  of  the  amazing,  amus- 
ing old  M^oman  to  whom  lie  found  he  had 
let  the  Chantry;  so  that,  even  if  her  turban 
had  not  obscured  his  view,  he  would  scarcely 
have  noticed  the  heroine  of  the  evening. 

After  the  dessert  and  the  wine,  he  and 
Peter  adjourned  to  the  garden,  and  smoked  a 
few  of  the  cigarettes  with  which  the  pockets 


SIR  JOHN  209 

of  Peter's  shameful  old  coat  were  always 
stuffed.  Then  Peter,  who  had  made,  simply 
and  obviously,  a  large  collection  of  good 
things  from  dessert  for  Tommy,  went  up- 
stairs to  2:>resent  them  to  that  youth — doing 
his  best  to  keep  awake  in  bed. 

As  Sir  John  strolled  to  the  drawing-room, 
he  heard  the  sound  of  the  harp,  and  entered 
softly. 

Though  it  was  still  daylight  without,  the 
great  velvet  curtains  had  been  drawn — Mrs. 
Latimer  having  worked  their  borders  of  roses 
and  tulips,  at  immense  expense  of  labour,  on 
purpose  to  be  seen  on  festal  occasions. 
Against  their  rich,  dark  background,  just 
under  the  glow  of  a  chandelier  full  of 
candles,  Ann  Thornbery  sat  at  the  old  harp 
belonging  to  the  Pilkingtons,  drawing  her 
fingers  across  the  strings,  in  the  preliminary 
bars  of  a  song. 

Very  few  people  realize  how  great  advan- 
tage beauty  receives  from  dress  and  fashion — ■ 
how  much  the  jewel  owes  to  its  setting.  But 
there  are  rare  occasions  when  artlessness  is 
the  highest  art.  It  would  have  been  con- 
sidered little  short  of  improper  if  Ann  had 
prematurely  arrayed  herself  in  one  of  her 
new  trousseau  frocks,  so  she  was  dressed  in 


2IO  BASSET 

the  soft  old  muslin  that  clung  to  her  slight 
figure,  and  added  to  its  exquisite  air  of 
virginity  and  youth. 

With  her  fair  hair  parted  softly,  Madonna- 
wise,  on  her  forehead,  with  the  "  white 
wonder "  of  the  hand  on  the  harp-strings, 
with  her  head  a  little  raised,  and  her  lovely, 
clear  eyes  looking  up,  she  might  have  stood 
as  model  to  a  painter  of  a  "  young-eyed 
cherubin "  harping  in  Heaven.  When  she 
sang  "  Angels  ever  bright  and  fair,"  in  a 
voice  not  fine  or  rich,  but  as  clear  and  fresh 
as  dawn,  and  with  round  limpid  notes 
in  it  like  a  boy's,  the  resemblance  was  com- 
plete. 

Sir  John,  having  closed  the  door,  leant 
against  the  jamb,  and,  with  his  own  face  in 
shadow,  watched  the  singer's. 

When  she  had  finished,  there  was  a  silence 
■ — the  best  of  thanks.  Old  Rastrick,  who  of 
course  was  of  the  party,  retrieved  jVIrs.  Dar- 
bisher's  handkerchief  from  under  a  chair,  and 
she  mopped  up  a  large  tear  without  conceal- 
ment— Lionel  considering  it  correct  and  be- 
coming that  women  should  cry  at  sentiment. 
JMrs.  Benet  had  been  so  intent  in  listening 
that  she  had  quite  forgotten  to  cover  the  stain 
in  her  front  breadth  with  her  amj)le  arm;  and 


SIR  JOHN  211 

her  old  man  had,  momentarily,  ceased  to 
regret  his  carpet-slippers  and  liis  home- 
evening. 

Rachel's  kind,  good  face  looked  as  if  it 
were  in  church;  but  a  comfortable,  human 
satisfaction  in  such  a  creditable  niece,  showed 
on  it,  when  the  room  broke  into  applause  and 
admiration.  Adoring  Lionel,  who  had  been 
sitting  with  his  back  to  the  company,  wor- 
shipping Ann,  went  to  help  her  to  repair  a 
very  slight  accident  to  a  harp-string;  Pollie 
said,  ''Please  sing  us  something  else"; 
Harry,  whom  "  Angels "  had  also  moved, 
added,  "  Several  things  " ;  and  Sir  John,  still 
leaning  against  the  door  with  his  face  in 
shadow,  said  nothing  at  all. 

It  was  not  until  Ann  had  given,  at  Lionel's 
suggestion,  "  Fly  away,  pretty  moth,"  and 
come  down  from  heaven  to  be  a  most  coy  and 
lovely  woman — one  could  be  coy  in  the 
forties  without  being  ridiculous — that  he 
moved  from  his  place,  came  across  to  her, 
introduced  himself  in  a  few  easy  words,  and 
stood  chatting  for  a  time  to  her  and  to 
Lionel. 

Lionel  naturally  desired  to  walk  home 
with  Miss  Pilkington  and  Ann  (who  had,  of 
course,  been  duly  and  technically  "  fetched  " 


212  BASSET 

by  Sarah),  but  was  so  charmed  with  Ann's 
thoughtfuhiess  when  she  softly  commanded 
him  to  go  with  liis  mother  (who  was  to  lose 
him  so  soon!)  that  he  obeyed,  good-naturedly. 

So  it  turned  out  that  it  was  Sir  John  and 
Peter  Grant  who  escorted  the  ladies  of  the 
White  Cottage  to  their  door — Sarah,  carry- 
ing the  party  slippers,  being  sent  on  ahead. 
Grant,  who  liked  JNIiss  Pilkingi:on,  and  w^as 
quite  unconscious  of  any  criticism  in  her 
mind  of  himself,  went  on  in  front  with  her  in 
his  usual  silence;  and  Ann,  who  had  an 
adorable  little  hood  framing  her  face,  walked 
behind  with  Sir  John. 

Before  the  occupants  of  the  White 
Cottage  went  to  bed,  Sarah,  who,  though 
disagreeable,  was  familiar,  had  of  course  to 
hear  all  about  the  dinner — that  is,  all  she  had 
not  heard  already  from  the  JNIanor  cook. 

She  inquired  if  Mrs.  Latimer  wore  her 
puce  or  the  (turned)  blue,  and  if  jNIiss  Ann 
liked  the  Baronite?  Ann  said  it  was  the 
turned  blue,  which  she  did  not  consider  very 
becoming,  and  that  she  thought  Sir  John  was 
a  dear  old  gentleman. 

"  The  dear  old  gentleman "  and  his  host 
sat  up,  both  smoking,  for  an  hour  in  Peter's 
study.     Sir  John  asked  a  few  questions  about 


SIR  JOHN  213 

the  only  people  he  did  not  already  know  well 
in  Basset — the  Darbishers  and  Miss  Thorn- 
bery.  Peter's  answers  were  not  less  vague 
and  unsatisfactory  than  usual. 

When  Sir  John  went  up  to  bed,  contrary 
to  his  usual  custom  he  roused  the  sleeping 
Adolphe,  and  gave  him  a  few  orders. 

The  day  after  the  dinner-party,  Miss 
Pilkington  retired  to  ,bed,  suffering  from 
what  she  called  an  "  obstruction  on  the  chest, 
caused  by  the  night  air."  When  Dr.  Benet 
arrived  and  said  simply,  that  the  obstruction 
was  lower  down  than  the  chest,  and  was 
occasioned  by  the  rich  food  at  the  dinner- 
party, Rachel  naturally  attributed  the  opinion 
to  the  Doctor's  lack  of  breeding,  and  actually 
told  Ann  that  she  did  sometimes  wish  she 
could  be  bold  enough  to  employ  Dr.  Spencer 
on  her  own  account,  as  one  could  see  at  a 
glance  he  was  a  thorough  gentleman. 

Ann  agreed  gently,  but  a  little  indif- 
ferently. 

As  Dr.  Benet  left  the  house,  after  his 
second  professional  visit  to  Miss  Pilkington, 
he  beheld  the  voluble  and  good-looking 
Adolphe  conversing  with  grim  Sarah  at 
the  back  door;  and  wondered  if  that  agree- 
able foreigner  could  possibly  be  courting  the 


214  BASSET 

stern  virgin  who  ruled  the  mistress  of  the 
White  Cottage. 

Later  that  same  day,  PolHe,  coming  to  the 
Cottage  with  new-laid  eggs  and  inquiries, 
beheld  on  her  way  there,  disappearing  down 
the  lane  near  the  Rectory,  two  figures. 
Lionel  Darbisher  she  had  just  met,  riding 
into  Dilchester.  The  only  other  lean,  tall 
men  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Basset  were  Sir 
John  Railton  and  Dr.  INIark  Spencer.  Pollie 
had  half  thought  for  a  moment  Ann's  com- 
panion was  Spencer;  but  as  she  passed 
Mja'tle  Cottage,  there  was  his  dark  head  by 
the  scarlet  geranium.  There  was  something 
puzzled  about  the  bright  face  she  put  into 
JNIiss  Pilkington's  bed-curtains,  as  she  asked 
after  that  lady's  health.  Among  other  things, 
JNIiss  Pilkington  informed  her  that  Ann 
was  taking  a  little  walk  with  Lionel,  un- 
chaperoned  she  feared,  but  how,  the  chaperon 
being  ill,  was  this  enormit}^  to  be  avoided? 
"  When  you  doubt,  abstain ;  "  is  an  uncom- 
monly sound  rule  to  apply  to  speech.  Pollie, 
feeling  deceitful,  kept  her  own  counsel,  and 
walked  home  thoughtfully. 

This  was  Fridaj'^ — the  wedding  was  to  be 
the  following  Wednesday. 

On  Saturday,  Ann  spent  the  afternoon  at 


SIR  JOHN  215 

the  Chantry,  and  as  she  sat  in  the  parlour 
with  Lionel  and  Mrs.  Darbisher,  unpacking  a 
wedding  present,  Sir  John  came  to  pay  his 
respects  to  his  tenant.  It  struck  that  lady 
that  her  landlord  did  not  look  so  old  as  she 
had  supposed  him  to  be  when  they  met  at 
the  Latimers'.  He  had  a  vigorous,  de- 
termined look  on  his  face  to-day;  was  it  that 
a  kind  of  ardour  and  deviltry  which  had  been 
in  his  eyes  as  extinct  fire  was  alive  again? 
Certainly  the  sarcastic  mouth  softened  a  little 
as  he  looked  round  the  parlour  where  a  small 
John  had  stood  by  his  mother's  side,  pricking 
a  text  on  to  paper  with  a  pin,  or  flattening  a 
button  of  a  nose — it  had  grown  drooping  and 
Jewish  looking  since — against  the  window 
pane,  watching  the  summer  rain  on  the  roses. 
Ann  was  sitting  in  his  mother's  chair  by  the 
writing-table,  with  her  bonnet  hanging  on 
her  arm  by  its  blue  ribbons,  and  her  lovely 
face  bent  over  the  present.  Sir  John  came 
to  admire  it  too — and  Mrs.  Darbisher  saw  it 
was  the  face  only  on  which  his  eyes  were 
fixed. 

Lionel's  mare  was  led  round  to  the  gravel 
walk  outside  the  long  windows — there  were 
papers  in  Mr.  Rastrick's  ofiice  awaiting  his 
signature — and  Ann  put  down  the  parcel  and. 


2i6  BASSET 

with  the  bonnet  still  on  her  arm,  went  out 
to  see  him  mount.  To  be  afraid  of  every- 
thing was  one  of  the  accepted  charms  of  the 
young  woman  of  the  daj",  and  Ann,  whose 
admirable  nerves  and  perfect  health  had  given 
her  really  an  excellent  courage,  put  out  a  very 
timid  little  hand  to  pat  the  mare  with  the 
smallest  and  most  gingerly  of  pats.  Lionel 
stooped  to  say  something  in  farewell,  wliich 
JNlrs.  Darbisher  and  Sir  John,  standing  by 
the  window,  did  not  hear.  He  rode  away — 
handsome,  happy,  and  often  looking  back. 

It  was  only  natural  that  when  Ann  rose 
to  leave,  saying  she  was  dreadfully  busy  and 
of  course  did  not  like  to  be  away  from  Aunt 
Rachel  for  long.  Sir  John  should  offer  to  take 
her  home.  JNIrs.  Darbisher,  in  spite  of  her 
flimsy  satin  slippers,  came  to  the  extreme 
limit  of  the  Chantry  grounds  with  her 
guests,  and  stood  at  the  gate  looking  after 
them  until  they  had  quite  disappeared  from 
view. 

When  Lionel  returned  from  Dilchester, 
he  found  his  mother  refreshingly  and  ex- 
traordinarily silent.  He  naturally  attributed 
this  to  her  distress  at  the  prospect  of  losing 
him,  and  wasted  a  long  time  assuring  her, 
really  heartily  and  warmly,  that  Ann  and  he 


SIR  JOHN  217 

should  be  always  staying  with  her  or  she  with 
them,  and  that  the  parting  would  be  only 
nominal.  She  returned  quite  absent  and  brief 
rei^lies,  and  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  him. 

On  Sunday,  Sir  John  accompanied  his 
host  to  church  in  the  morning;  sat  in  the 
Railton  family  pew;  looked  about  him  a 
good  deal  and  yawned.  He  announced  to 
Peter  his  intention  of  staying  at  home  in 
the  afternoon,  candidly  stating  that  two 
such  sermons  in  one  day  were  more  than 
he  could  bear.  Old  Peter,  who,  unless  he 
had  been  under  marching  orders  on  Sundays, 
would  very  likely  not  have  attended  any 
service  himself,  w^as  not  in  the  least  offended. 

In  those  daj^s,  if  people  went  to  church 
once  they  went  twice,  and  the  afternoon 
service  at  Basset  was  as  well,  or  ill,  attended 
as  the  morning.  On  that  particular  Sundaj^ 
however,  Ann  and  Sarah  were  both  absentees 
— owing  to  Miss  Pilkington's  illness. 

Peter  Grant  certainly  could  not  complain 
that  either  on  week-days  or  Sundays  his 
guest  was  a  troublesome  one. 

Sir  John  was  out  all  daj%  generally  on  his 
horse,  which  he  had  brought  with  him — pre- 
sumably inspecting  his  farms  and  property 
with   Phillips.      Sometimes,    he   would    stroll 


2i8  BASSET 

out  again  in  the  evening,  in  the  warm  June 
dusk.  In  fact,  his  only  defect  as  a  visitor  was 
that  he  gave  no  hint  when  his  visit  was  likely 
to  end.  That  it  would  last  over  the  wedding 
Avas  certain.  He  had  sent  for  his  phaeton 
and  cobs,  which  presaged  an  even  longer  sta3^ 
Peter  had  always  liked  his  cousin,  and  this 
time,  despite  Sir  John's  saturnine  face  and 
sarcastic  utterance,  there  was  surely  in  him 
something  of  the  eagerness  and  spirit  which 
had  marked  the  boy.  Adolphe  always  made 
himself  popular  in  a  kitchen  by  the  simple 
system  of  making  ardent  love  to  the  oldest 
and  ugliest  woman  in  it;  and  when  he  was 
not  thus  engaged,  seemed  fully  occupied  in 
running  errands  for  the  household,  or  his 
master,  in  the  village  and  even  in  Dil- 
chester. 

Peter's  post-bag  was  quite  heavy  and  fat 
now  Sir  John  was  his  guest.  Once,  at  least, 
a  thick  legal  document  arrived,  which  the 
Baronet  received  as  if  he  had  expected  it,  and 
to  which  he  made  no  allusion.  But  a  certain 
satisfaction  on  his  guest's  face  suggested  to 
Peter  that  Sir  John  had  been  successfully 
raising  money. 

INIeanwhile,  the  village  was  quite  enjoying 
the  wedding  preparations.     The  dame  school 


SIR  JOHN  219 

was  to  have  a  holiday  for  the  great  occa- 
sion; and  there  was  talk  of  erecting  such  a 
triumphal  arch  as  had  welcomed  home  Harry 
and  Pollie.  Mrs.  Muggleton,  the  dingy  pew- 
opener,  made,  on  Tuesday,  a  feint  of  giving 
the  church  an  extra  clean.  The  custom  of 
decorating  it  with  flowers  was  yet  unknown; 
but  Pollie,  with  some  exercise  of  tact  and 
skill,  succeeded  in  abstracting  Peter's  old 
surplice  from  the  vestry,  and  had  it  washed 
and  mended. 

At  the  Manor,  for  hours  together  for 
several  daj^s  before  the  great  occasion,  she 
and  Mrs.  Jones  bent  their  very  dissimilar 
heads  together  over  INIrs.  Glasse,  and  evolved 
from  those  heads  and  her  instructions  the 
loveliest  pies  and  jellies. 

Harry,  in  the  library,  made  a  few  efforts 
to  compose  a  speech,  suitably  parental  in 
character,  for  the  breakfast  (he  was  to  act 
in  loco  parentis,  and  give  the  bride  away), 
soon  decided  to  trust  to  the  inspiration  of 
the  moment  and  his  usual  excellent  luck; 
whistled  to  the  dogs,  and  went  out  to 
despatch  a  cart  and  a  strong  horse  into 
Dilchester  to  meet  cases  of  wine,  specially 
ordered  from  London. 

Mrs.  Benet,  now  knowing  Mark's  wardrobe 


2  20  BASSET 

by  heart,  and  regarding  all  tailors  as  sharks 
preying  on  foolish  man,  herself  made  him  a 
new  wedding  w^aistcoat — several  sizes  too 
large,  so  that  he  could  grow  stout  with  im- 
punity. 

At  the  Chantr}^  there  was  naturallj^  much 
business  and  preparation. 

With  a  solemn  omniscience,  Lionel  had 
actually  settled  on  a  suitable  wedding  cos- 
tume for  his  mother;  and  especially  begged 
her  to  keep  the  lace  shawl  which  completed 
it  in  place,  and  by  no  means  to  allow  it,  as 
had  once  happened,  to  catch  in  the  chain 
round  her  neck  and  hang  suspended  bj''  a 
single  thread  down  her  back,  like  a  flag  at 
half-mast  on  a  still  da3^  He  further  issued 
minutely  careful  instructions  as  to  her  con- 
duct at  the  breakfast;  but  liis  personal  con- 
dition of  triumphant  bliss  made  him,  on  the 
whole,  less  strict  with  her  than  usual,  and 
he  forgave  her  her  anxious  eyes  and  frequent 
lapses  into  tears,  as  natural  though  unneces- 
sary. 

She  remained,  for  her,  curiously  silent. 
She  seemed  to  be  always  on  the  point  of  say- 
ing things,  and  then  stopping  short.  Lionel 
must  have  detected  such  repression,  as  being 
extremely  foreign  to  her  character,  but  that 


SIR  JOHN  221 

he  was  totally  absorbed  in  himself,  Ann,  and 
hapi)iness. 

JNIeanwhile,  at  the  White  Cottage,  Miss 
Pilkington  was  daily  making  herself  worse 
b}^  the  fear  she  should  not  be  better  in  time 
for  the  important  day.  On  JNIonday,  it 
became  evident  that  anticipation  had  indeed 
brought  about  realization;  and  she  shed  many 
tears  of  disapj)ointment,  while  Ann  softly 
bathed  her  head  with  eau-de-Cologne. 

Ann  was  the  most  gentle  and  soothing  of 
nurses,  totally  without  the  bang  and  bounce 
which  distinguish  her  descendants  to-day; 
and,  instead  of  their  loud-voiced  health  and 
cheerfulness — all  very  well  if  one  is  one's  self 
healthy  and  cheerful — had  the  quiet  and 
repose  which  were  once  taken  to  be  excel- 
lent things  in  woman.  When  Rachel  opened 
her  aching  eyes,  there,  on  the  chair  by  the 
window,  was  her  niece,  with  the  fair  smooth 
head  bent  over  the  voluminous  trousseau 
pocket  handkerchief,  which  she  was  em- 
broidering with  her  Christian  name — it  was 
unlucky  to  put  the  surname  till  it  was  really 
one's  own — and  the  invalid  shut  her  eyes 
again  with  a  contented  sigh,  as  if  she  had 
seen  something  refreshing  and  healing. 

Of  course,  Ann  was  not  always  in  the  sick- 


222  BASSET 

room.  It  was  Sarah  who  pointed  out  that 
]Miss  had  a  deal  to  do  a-sorting  and  a-packing 
of  her  things  for  London — the  honeymoon 
was  to  be  spent  there.  But,  all  the  same, 
Ann  was  unselfishly  ready  to  run  little 
errands  for  her  aunt — to  fetch  the  beautiful 
beef-tea  Mrs.  Latimer  was  having  made  for 
her — or  to  leave  a  message  at  Dr.  Benet's  to 
say  the  precise  hour  at  which  the  patient 
would  next  wish  to  see  him.  The  solemn  rule, 
that  the  well-])red  young  lady  must  never  be 
allowed  out-of-doors  unattended,  had,  per- 
force, to  be  more  and  more  relaxed  in  Ann's 
case;  but  she  was  so  perfecth^  modest  and 
decorous  and,  withal,  was  to  be  married  so 
soon,  that  even  Miss  Pilkington  was  com- 
fortably resigned  to  the  inevitable. 

On  the  evening  before  the  wedding  Ann 
brought  in  the  little,  white,  low-necked 
bridal  frock  to  show  it  to  her  aunt  in  its 
full  beauty  and  completion;  and  tried  on  the 
bonnet,  with  its  white  satin  ribbons,  and  the 
lace  pelerine  in  which  she  was  to  "  go  away." 

She  was  naturally  pleased  to  give  that 
little  dress-rehearsal;  and  so  gently  attentive 
presently  in  herself  bringing  upstairs  her 
aunt's  mild  supper  of  bread  and  milk,  that 
Rachel  felt,  with  a  new,  sudden  stab  at  her 


SIR  JOHN  223 

heart,  how  much  she  would  miss  her  pretty 
companion. 

Presently,  from  the  bed,  as  in  duty  bound, 
the  aunt  tendered  a  little  last,  good,  kindly 
advice  on  the  right  conduct  of  a  wife — and 
felt  herself  suddenly  pulled  up  against  the 
blank  wall  of  Ann's  quiet  self-satisfaction, 
which  made  her  gently  and  absolutely  certain 
of  being  perfect  in  every  relation  of  life. 
When  they  said  good  night,  the  old  spinster 
was  almost  ashamed,  in  the  face  of  the  bride's 
exquisite  calm,  of  her  own  warm,  agitated 
feehngs  and  emotions. 

The  wedding-day — it  was  the  1st  of  July 
— dawned  fine  and  hot. 

Before  half-past  ten— the  service  was  to 
be  at  eleven — Basset  church  presented  an 
appearance  of  very  uncommon  animation. 
Carriages  had  begun  to  arrive  from  Dil- 
chester;  great  barouches  brought  a  sprinkling 
of  the  County.  The  free  benches  and  the 
music-gallery  were  crowded  with  villagers; 
the  school  children,  ready  to  scatter  flowers, 
were  drawn  up  in  line  outside.  In  the 
vestry.  Parson  Grant  and  Rover  were  de- 
jectedly waiting  the  appointed  hour — the 
Parson,  having  being  greatly  warned  against 
being  behind  time,  was  much  before  it,  and 


224  BASSET 

clad  a  good  half-hour  too  soon  in  his  clean 
surplice;  while  Rover  lay  at  full  length,  with 
his  head  between  his  paws,  looking  attentively 
at  his  master  and  inquiring  with  his  eyes  how 
much  longer  this  sort  of  thing  was  to  go  on. 

Eliza  Pilkington,  the  bride's  nearest  rela- 
tion present,  was  in  the  JNIanor  pew  with 
Mrs.  Latimer. 

Pollie  had  on  a  new  gown  and  a  blonde 
scarf;  and  at  her  side.  Tommy,  in  a  beautiful 
little  nankeen  suit  and  frilled  collar,  was 
literally  and  metaphorically  on  the  tiptoe  of 
excitement,  mounted  on  two  hassocks,  and 
prepared  to  enjoy  his  first  wedding  to  the 
full. 

Mrs.  Darbisher,  accompanied  by  her 
brother-in-law,  who  was  stajang  at  the 
Chantry,  had,  thought  observant  Pollie,  a 
thin,  distraught  look. 

Mrs.  Benet  was  magnificent  in  her  new 
bonnet;  a  thick,  handsome  lace  veil  over 
her  face,  first  worn  at  her  own  marriage,  did 
not  prevent  her  shrewd  old  ej^es  from  seeing 
everybody  and  everything.  The  Doctor  was 
there — reluctantly — but  trying,  not  unsuc- 
cessfull}^  to  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter 
and  appear  genial  and  hearty. 

INIark  Spencer  was,  so  far,  absent;  and  Sir 


SIR  JOHN  225 

John's  family  pew  was  being  rigorously  pre- 
served for  him  by  Mrs.  Muggleton.  Old 
Finch  had  contrived  to  drag  his  gouty  foot 
into  the  farm  seat.  Miss  Fitten,  tremblingly 
anxious  to  see  the  results  of  her  handiwork, 
had  a  good  place  near  him.  Those  who  had 
tears  were  preparing  to  shed  them  now. 
JMrs.  Rastrick  was  not  likely  to  miss  so  happy 
an  opportunity  of  being  miserable.  Mr. 
Rastrick,  detained  by  business,  drove  up  at 
the  last  minute — that  is  to  say,  about  ten 
minutes  to  eleven — and  prayed  briefly  into 
the  lining  of  a  brand-new  white  beaver  hat. 

Hovering  about  the  aisle  were  Lionel  and 
his  best  man,  Chisholm,  the  young  Scotsman, 
who  had  already  thought  better  of  free  think- 
ing. Lionel  was  anxiously  wondering  if  any 
one  would  notice  the  slight  imperfection  of 
fit  in  the  back  of  his  fine  new  blue  swallow- 
tail, or  if  he  had  only  imagined  that  defect; 
then,  impatiently,  wished  the  whole  business 
were  over,  and  he  and  Ann  were  off — to 
Elysium. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Harry  Latimer, 
in  his  parental  character,  was  to  drive  in  the 
best  yellow  landeau  to  the  White  Cottage  and 
call  for  Ann. 

The  landeau  was  heard  to  rumble  past  the 


226  BASSET 

church,  pull  up  at  the  White  Cottage,  wait 
there,  and,  after  a  rather  long  interval,  drive 
to  the  church  again.  The  clock  struck  eleven. 
There  were  the  usual  stirrings  and  whisper- 
ings of  excitement,  and  every  one  was  look- 
ing towards  the  door,  ]Mrs.  Latimer's  brisk 
little  head  being  also  turned  in  that  direction. 

Suddenly,  she  saw  her  husband  come  in — 
alone,  walking  quickly,  and  with  a  most 
portentous  expression  on  his  ruddy  face.  In 
his  hand  there  was  a  letter,  beautifully  di- 
rected in  a  sloping  feminine  handwriting  to 
Lionel  Darbisher,   Esquire. 

JNIaking  straight  for  Lionel,  as  Harry 
passed  his  own  pew  he  breathed  in  his  wife's 
ear  the  momentous  and  laconic  statement, 
"Bolted  with  Railton!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

MY   LADY 

The  action  of  Sir  John's  most  widely  criti- 
cized, was  all  the  same  one  of  the  most 
generous  and  genuine  of  his  life.  To  be 
capable  of  being  wholly  enthralled  by  a 
woman  implies,  surely,  a  faith  in  human 
nature,  a  sincerity  of  devotion,  and  an  un- 
worldliness  which  are  not  ignoble  traits. 

For  the  arts  and  cajoleries  of  accomphshed 
and  designing  beauty,  Sir  John  was,  by  much 
experience,  perfectly  a  match;  but  when  he 
saw  Ann — with  the  innocence  which  recalled 
his  mother — a  violet — 

"  dim, 
But   sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 
Or  Cytherea's  breath," 

he  fell  in  love  with  her  with  the  rapture 
of  a  boy,  and  believed  that  he  worshipped 
an  angel.  To  rescue  her  from  a  marriage 
she  was  soon  brought  to  avow  loveless;  to 
woo  her,  but  never  to  sear  or  frighten  her, 

227 


228  BASSET 

with  the  ardour  of  his  sudden,  leaping  pas- 
sion; to  deceive  a  few  old  women  and  bribe 
a  couple  of  servants,  needed  determination 
and  some  shrewdness,  but  not  much  time. 

As  for  Ann,  when  she  first  saw  Sir  John, 
it  naturally  occurred  to  her  as  a  pity  that 
she  had  met  him  too  late;  her  instincts  soon 
told  her  that  it  might  not  be  too  late  after 
all.  Then  she  really  did  nothing  but  be 
lovely  and  a  little  pathetic;  meet  Sir  John, 
by  chance,  as  often  as  possible;  and  when 
the  meetings  were  no  longer  by  chance, 
modestly  and  gently  facilitate  them. 

Lionel,  whom  she  had  really  liked  vei^y 
well  indeed,  she  almost  forgot. 

The  shortness  of  the  time  and  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  chase,  made  Sir  John  the 
more  hot  to  engage  in  it.  Was  it  Ann  or 
himself  who  had  suggested  the  special  license, 
the  marriage  in  Dilchester  on  the  morning 
of  July  1st — since  it  could  not  possibly  be 
arranged  sooner — ^the  cobs  and  phaeton  wait- 
ing to  drive  the  pair  at  once  on  the  first 
stage  of  their  honeymoon  journey? 

At  the  time.  Sir  John  certainly  thought  it 
was  he  who  had  arranged  everything. 

After  Ann  had  kissed  her  aunt  good  night 
on  that  last  evening  of  June,  she  had  written 


MY  LADY  229 

two  letters,  one  to  Rachel  and  one  to  Lionel, 
saying  all  the  usual  things  in  quite  the 
nicest  way.  In  Rachel's  letter,  she  had  not 
forgotten  to  thank  her  aunt  for  all  her  kind- 
ness, to  apologize  for  the  trouble  she  was 
giving,  and  to  add  that  marrying  Sir  John 
would  be  such  a  much  better  thing  for  poor 
papa  and  mama  and  the  brothers  and  sisters 
at  home! 

In  the  letter  to  Lionel  was  that  well-worn, 
but  very  just  and  good  excuse,  about  the  feel- 
ings of  one's  heart  being  beyond  one's  con- 
trol; and  he  was  not  spared  the  supreme 
hanalite — Ann  would  henceforth  regard  him 
as  a  brother. 

She  pinned  these  two  notes  on  her  pin- 
cushion in  the  accepted  manner.  She  put 
away  the  white  bridal  frock,  honestly  regret- 
ful she  could  not  wear  it.  Since  the  perfectly 
reliable  Sarah  had  been  instructed  to  call  her 
in  excellent  time  to  elope  comfortably,  Ann 
slept  all  night — a  sound,  soft  sleep  like  a 
baby's.  In  the  morning,  she  rose  as  fresh 
as  a  flower,  put  on  the  going-away  frock, 
the  pelerine,  the  bonnet  with  white  ribbons, 
saw  that  the  two  notes  were  secure  on  the 
pin-cushion,  left  her  little  room  in  neatest 
order,  said  "  Good-bye,  Sarah,  and  thank  you 


230  BASSET 

very  much  "  (more  substantial  thanks  having 
been  offered  bj^  Sir  John),  sHj^ped  out 
through  the  garden  gate  into  a  by-lane  lead- 
ing to  the  Rectory,  and  there  found  awaiting 
her,  Sir  John,  Adolphe,  the  cobs  and  the 
phaeton. 

Sir  John's  hands  shook  a  little  as  he 
heljDed  her  into  the  carriage;  but  then  he  had 
been  awake  half  the  night,  excited  like  a  boy. 
Even  Ann  detected,  from  a  certain  softness 
and  exhilaration  on  the  face  he  bent  down 
into  her  bonnet,  that  he  was  a  good  deal 
moved. 

They  had  chosen  their  time  well.  Every- 
body in  Basset  was  dressing  for  Ann's  wed- 
ding with  Lionel,  and  not  a  soul  saw  them 
as  they  drove  through  the  village. 

When  Harry  gave  Lionel  Ann's  letter — 
which  Sarah  had  duly  found  on  the  pin- 
cushion, and  presented  to  INIr.  Latimer  as 
arranged — Lionel  read  it  like  a  man  in  a 
dream.  As  if  he  had  not  understood  it,  he 
began  to  read  it  again. 

Harrj"  used  to  vow  afterwards  he  never 
said  a  word  to  INIrs.  Darbisher,  and  that  she 
must  have  grasped  the  situation  by  instinct. 
It  is  certainly  true  that,  abandoning  her  para- 
phernalia of  vinaigrette,  nosegay,  and  prayer- 


MY  LADY  231 

book,  and  pushing  past  her  fat  and  be- 
wildered brother-in-law,  she  made  Lionel  give 
her  his  arm  and — with  a  kind  of  dignity  that 
was  foreign  to  her,  and  a  self-possession  for 
which  her  dearest  friend  would  not  have  given 
her  credit — walked  with  him  down  the  aisle, 
through  the  phalanx  of  children  in  the 
churchyard,  to  the  yellow  barouche,  which 
was  to  have  driven  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom to  the  INIanor.  She  herself  gave  the 
old  coachman  the  direction  to  the  Chantry; 
Lionel  followed  her  into  the  carriage,  and 
they  drove  away. 

In  the  church  the  surprised  murmurs  of 
the  congregation  quickly  became  an  open 
buzz. 

In  three  minutes  every  one  had  grasped 
the  truth,  or  something  like  it.  Eliza  Pil- 
kington  sat  down  suddenly  and  fanned  herself 
prodigiousl}^  Various  guests — chiefly  those 
to  whom  it  could  not  possibly  matter  if  Ann 
Thornbery  married  a  man  called  Darbisher 
or  a  man  called  Railton  or  nobody  at  all- 
felt  justified  in  turning  faint.  In  those  days, 
it  was  no  uncommon  thing  to  keep  a  bottle 
of  wine  and  biscuits  as  emergency  rations  in 
the  cupboard  in  one's  pew.  Llarry  im- 
mediately  produced   these   restoratives    from 


232  BASSET 

the  Manor  seat,  revived  INIrs.  Rastrick  on  the 
spot,  and  himself  had  half  a  glass  of  sherry 
to  soothe  his  emotions.  His  kindness,  his 
excellent  common-sense,  and  his  all-for-the- 
best-in-the-best-of-worlds  disposition,  made 
him  the  very  man  for  such  a  crisis.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  when  he  had  reminded  Eliza  Pilking- 
ton  that  Railton  and  Ann  were  "  tied  up 
tight  "  by  this  time  in  Dilchester,  and  that  it 
wasn't  such  a  bad  thing  to  have  a  title  in  the 
family,  Eliza — although  she  waved  the  com- 
fort away  with  her  fan  and  great  dignity — 
felt  better,  and  was  able  to  go  at  once  to  the 
White  Cottage  to  inform  Rachel  that  she 
ought  to  have  seen  this  coming  on. 

Mrs.  Benet  gripped  her  husband's  arm 
very  tightly  and  said  trimphantly,  "  I  told 
you  so!" — not  meaning  that  she  had  pro- 
phesied such  a  catastrophe,  but  that  she  had 
always  considered  Ann,  like  Habakkuk, 
"  capable  de  tout." 

Pollie  explained  matters  to  INIrs.  Dar- 
bisher's  brother-in-law,  and  he  returned  at 
once,  on  her  advice,  to  the  Chantry.  Tommy, 
who  had  dismally  realized  by  this  time  that 
he  was  to  be  cheated  of  his  first  wedding, 
dissolved  into  tears. 

Rover  had   come   out   of  the   vestrv   once 


MY  LADY  233 

or  twice  to  see  what  was  happening,  and 
returning,  reported  affairs  to  Peter.  Only 
Peter  was  so  dense  that  he  positively  had 
taken  in  nothing,  and  it  was  not  till  the 
church  was  half  emptied  of  guests — who 
had  mostly  taken  their  carriages  and  gone 
straight  home — that  Harry,  coming  into  the 
vestry,  found,  to  his  huge  amusement, 
the  Parson  still  waiting  to  perform  the  cere- 
mony. 

On  their  way  up  to  the  Manor  to  have 
something  to  eat,  Harry  made  Peter  ac- 
quainted with  the  facts  in  detail.  Is  it 
possible  there  was  a  gleam  of  something 
Hke  pleasure  and  excitement  in  his  dim  old 
eye,  and  that  for  a  moment  he  was  not 
the  parson  of  dull  Basset,  but  once  again 
that  great,  wild,  rash,  profligate,  shock- 
headed.  Ensign  Peter  of  the  Rifle  Brigade? 

To  the  partie  carree  at  the  Manor — Mr. 
and  ]Mrs.  Latimer,  Tommy  and  Grant — all 
gathered  at  one  end  of  the  great,  richly 
spread  wedding  breakfast-table,  eating  a 
little  and  talking  a  great  deal,  enter 
presently  Mark  Spencer.  Knowing  he  had 
not  been  in  church,  and  supposing  he  had 
not  heard  the  news,  Harry  broke  out  with 
it  at  once. 


234  BASSET 

"  That's  all  right,"  says  INIark,  with  a 
good  deal  of  amusement  in  his  eyes,  and 
taking  a  chair  by  his  hostess,  "  I  met  them 
driving  into  Dilchester  as  I  was  riding 
home  from  there,  a  couple  of  hours  ago." 

Pollie,  who  had  her  lace  veil  thrown  back 
over  her  bonnet,  and  a  very  prettj-  excited 
colour  in  her  cheeks,  answered  impulsively, 
"  Then  you  ought  to  have  stopped  them!  " 

"Like  a  highwaj^man  ? "  says  Mark;  and 
then  added,  "  Why?  It  is  the  best  thing 
that  could  have  happened  for  everybody — 
except   Railton." 

When  Harry  took  in  the  meaning  of  this 
speech,  it  offended  his  invincible  good  nature. 
"  Anyhow,  she's  a  deuced  pretty  girl,"  he 
said,  rather  crossly,  in  his  usual  phrase.  "  I 
don't  see  that  Railton  comes  off  so  badly." 

"  I  hope  he  don't,"  says  old  Peter,  who 
had  been  eating  steadily,  and  fell  at  once  to 
eating  steadil}^  again. 

"  Well,  here's  health  to  the  bride  and 
bridegroom,  whoever  they  are,  and  I  am 
precious  glad  I  don't  have  to  make  that 
speech,"  saj^s  the  incurable  optimist  at  the 
head  of  the  table;  and  he  drank  to  the  good 
fortunes  of  Sir  John  and  INIy  Lady. 

Presently,    when    old    Grant    and    Harry 


MY  LADY  235 

were  plying  the  willing  Tommy  with  good 
things,  and  enjoying  the  naivete  of  the 
questions  and  surmises  on  his  too  fluent 
tongue,  Mrs.  Latimer  turned  to  Spencer. 

"  I  am  not  so  surprised  as  I  thought  I 
was  at  first,"  she  said.  "  Y'ou  know — last 
Friday,  I  think  it  was — I  saw  Ann  walking 
alone  with  Sir  John,  in  the  Rectory  lane." 

"  Why  didn't  you  stop  them? "  asks 
Spencer. 

"  Well,"  answered  Pollie,  slowly,  "  at  first 
I  thought  Sir  John  was  you." 

Spencer  looked  at  her  for  a  minute;  then 
considered  the  wine  at  the  bottom  of  his 
glass ;  drank  it ;  and  said  nothing. 

When  he  presently  left  the  Manor,  he 
turned  his  steps,  as  a  matter  of  habit,  to  the 
Benets'.  But  he  saw  no  one,  old  Jeannie 
being  upstairs  in  her  petticoat,  pinning  the 
gala  bonnet  into  a  muslin  bag,  exceedingly 
wrathful  with  Ann  for  having  caused  her  to 
buy  it  under  false  pretences ;  while  the  Doctor 
was  with  Miss  Pilkington. 

The  worst  of  having  no  selfish  personal 
history  of  one's  own,  is  that  one  takes  to  heart 
much  too  deeply  the  affairs  of  other  persons. 

When  old  Benet  took  Rachel's  hot,  thin 
hand   between  his,  and — best   form   of   sym- 


236  BASSET 

pathy — let  her  pour  out  to  him  as  much  as 
she  wished  to  say,  without  leading  her  on  to 
say  that  which  she  might  wish  hereafter  she 
had  not  said,  she  reproached  herself  sharply 
that  she  had  thought  him  ill-bred  and  had 
indulged  a  strong  objection  to  his  untidy 
eyebrows.  He  was  so  kind  and  sensible,  and 
when  she  had  recovered  herself  a  little  and 
declared  loyally  that  if  Ann  liked  Sir  John 
better  than  Lionel  she  w^as  not  wrong  to 
marry  him,  agreed  so  stoutly  saying,  "  Of 
course  not,  of  course  not,"  that  she  felt 
relieved,  believing  the  opinion  of  outsiders 
would  not  be  greatly  against  her  niece. 

But,  not  the  less,  when  he  left  her,  she 
turned  on  her  pillow  and  wept  again.  Old, 
poor,  without  definite  occupation,  she  knew  to 
the  full  the  disadvantages  of  the  spinsterhood 
Ann  had  been  so  anxious  to  avoid,  and  had 
never  blamed  her  for  avoiding  it.  The  deceit 
towards  herself  she  could  abundantly  pardon. 
But  her  warm  and  generous  nature  revolted 
against  the  callousness  which  had  been  ready 
to  exchange,  at  a  week's  notice,  ardour  and 
devotion — for  a  better  establishment;  and 
her  heart  bled  for  the  poor  boy  at  the 
Chantry,  whom  she  had  liked — better  than 
Ann  could  like  anybody. 


MY  LADY  237 

In  the  yellow  barouche,  on  the  way  home 
from  the  church,  neither  Lionel  nor  his 
mother  had  uttered  a  word.  Mrs.  Darbisher 
put  her  hand  on  the  boy's  knee  for  a  moment, 
but  he  did  not  even  notice  it. 

At  the  house,  he  went  straight  uj^stairs  to 
his  rooms  in  a  silence  that  frightened  her. 
She  had  the  wit  not  to  follow  him.  After 
a  while,  and  some  consultation,  she  thank- 
fully ordered  the  chaise  to  take  her  brother- 
in-law  and  young  Chisholm  to  Dilchester,  on 
the  first  stage  of  their  journe}^  home. 

At  the  customary  Chantry  dinner-hour — 
six  o'clock — the  bell  rang  as  usual. 

His  mother  did  not  think  Lionel  would 
appear,  but  he  did — with  a  very  fair 
semblance  of  his  usual  manner.  She  helped 
him  by  running  on  vaguely  during  the  meal 
about  things  she  had  seen,  or  not  seen,  in  the 
newspaper,  till  the  servants  had  left  the 
room. 

Then  Lionel  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of 
port,  and  looked  across  at  her  with  a  vague 
irritation  as  if  he  wished  she  would  leave  him 
alone.  Instead,  she  took  a  chair  closer  to 
him,  and  put  a  hand,  not  timid  and  deprecat- 
ing as  usual,  but  firm  and  fond,  upon  his. 
In  a  moment  he  had  shaken  it  off,  pushed 


238  BASSET 

away  the  glass  and  plate  in  front  of  him  with 
a  rough  movement,  and  with  his  head  leaning 
upon  his  hands,  broke,  from  his  hot,  sore 
heart,  into  a  passion  of  abuse  of  Railton. 

The  man  was  a  scoundrel  and  reprobate, 
an  artful  seducer  of  innocence — a  damned 
liar,  and  a  profligate!  A  week  ago — no,  not 
a  week,  only  a  few  days — Lionel  knew  for 
certain  that  Ann  cared  for  him;  and  then 
that — that  Judas — says  Lionel,  concentrating 
his  misery  and  bitterness  into  the  epithet — 
deceived  and  persuaded  her. 

INIrs.  Darbisher  gathered  her  courage  and 
said,  for  her,  decidedly,  "  Only,  Buppy  dear, 
the  right  sort  of  woman  couldn't  possibly 
have  been  persuaded.  If  she  really  cared  for 
you  she  never  would  have  listened  to  him  for 
a  second." 

The  poor  boy  w^as  so  bruised  and  hurt 
himself,  he  could  not  hel^D  bruising  and  hurt- 
ing, in  revenge. 

"  You're  glad  then,  I  suppose,"  he  said 
with  a  sneer  and  a  sob.  "  You  don't  care 
what  it  means — to  me." 

Before  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth, 
he  was  stricken  with  the  consciousness  of  the 
tears  on  her  face,  and  with  the  sudden  knowl- 
edge that  the  face  itself  had  grown  sunken 


MY  LADY  239 

and  thinner.  She  looked  at  him  for  a 
minute,  and  then  got  up  and  left  him,  and 
in  her  chair,  Lionel  found  a  wet  ball  of  a 
handkerchief. 

It  was  a  somewhat  gentler  and  calmer 
person  who  joined  her  in  the  parlour  at  tea- 
time. 

As  he  entered  the  room  the  servant  was 
bringing  lights,  and  with  them  a  small  parcel, 
directed  to  Lionel.  He  opened  it  mechan- 
ically, and  there,  on  the  table  before  them,  on 
white  velvet  backgrounds,  lay  the  family 
rubies,  gorgeously  and  gaudily  reset  to  please 
the  tastelessness  of  the  bride.  Mrs.  Dar- 
bisher,  who  had  simplj^  liked  the  old  settings 
for  their  associations,  and  whose  own  taste 
was  not  better  than  that  of  most  people  in 
her  day,  gave  an  exclamation  of  admiration. 
Lionel,  who  knew  better,  looked  at  the  jewels 
— the  stones  were  not  really  fine,  and  had 
owed,  it  seemed,  almost  all  their  beautj^  to 
the  quaint  delicacy  of  that  old-world  setting 
— and  puslied  them  away  with  a  laugh  of 
contempt. 

At  once,  suddenly,  he  and  his  mother  be- 
gan to  talk,  and  as  they  talked,  far  into  the 
July  evening,  it  transpired  that  she  had  seen 
many  things  to  which  he  had  been  blind — that 


240  BASSET 

she  had  been  positively  wiser  than  himself; 
while,  when  she  spoke  of  the  forebodings  and 
anxieties  which  had  been  in  her  mind,  it 
dawned  upon  him  that  he  had  been  actually 
selfish  and  self-absorbed;  and  he  realized — 
that  realization  often  only  brought,  too  late, 
by  death — that  in  spite  of  her  annoying 
idiosyncrasies  he  really  loved  her  well. 

Before  they  parted  that  night  they  under- 
stood each  other  better  than  they  had  done 
for  years. 

A  few  days  later,  Spencer's  horse  elected 
to  go  lame. 

Early  one  morning,  he  came  up  to  the 
Chantry,  and  it  was  soon  arranged  that 
Lionel,  whose  sensitive  pride  had  confined 
him  entirely  to  the  Chantry  grounds  since 
the  debacle,  should  drive  Spencer  on  his 
rounds.  For  the  first  few  days  Lionel  did 
all  the  talking;  and  his  companion — let  the 
wound  bleed.  But  after  a  time,  it  was  put 
into  the  boy's  mind — presumably  by  Spencer, 
though  he  had  certainly  never  said  so — that 
it  was  unworthy  a  man  of  Lionel's  brains  and 
calibre  to  go  whining  after  a  woman — that 
there  were  great  things  to  achieve  in  the 
^vorld,  out  of  the  reach  of  her  making  or  mar- 
ring.    Gradually,  they  began  to  talk  less  of 


MY  LADY  241 

Ann  and  Sir  John — and  more  of  Lionel's 
future. 

Presently,  of  an  evening,  Darbisher  would 
come  to  Myrtle  Cottage  and  announce  his 
positive,  vain  young  literary  judgments;  in 
short,  show  signs  of  a  return  to  that  pleasant 
self-esteem  which  is  the  mother  of  much 
cheerfulness.  Spencer  listened,  and  threw  in 
a  word  now  and  again;  sometimes  stretched 
out  his  long  arm  for  a  book  out  of  his  shelf 
and  passed  it  to  Lionel.  Lionel  perceived, 
though  he  could  not  remember  it  had  ever 
actually  been  said,  that  Spencer  thought  he 
had  chances  of  literary  success,  and  that  the 
chances  were  not  worth  much  without  a  good 
deal  of  reading — and  experience. 

"  What  about  travelling? "  says  Spencer. 
"  Study  a  foreign  literature — in  its  own 
country?  " 

"  There's  my  mother,"  answers  Darbisher, 
doubtfully. 

wSpencer  took  the  favourable  opportunity 
of  a  professional  visit  to  Mrs.  Darbisher — 
whom  sleeplessness  and  worry  had  made 
really  ill — to  suggest  that  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  if  she  and  Lionel  went  abroad.  She 
was  a  chattering  fool  in  Mark's  judgment  of 
her;   and  when  she  doubtfully  agreed  as  to 


242  BASSET 

the  benefit  Lionel  might  derive,  and  then 
entered  into  vague,  diverting  surmises  as  to 
the  drawbacks  of  foreign  parts,  he  felt  scorn- 
ful of  her.  However,  he  had  come  with  a 
purpose,  and  meant  to  achieve  it. 

When  Lionel  joined  them  presently,  and 
said  gravely,  "  ^Nly  mother  does  not  like  any- 
thing that  is  not  perfectly  British,"  Spencer, 
who  believed  in  the  value  of  a  good  bold  lie 
when  necessary  to  deceive  the  patient,  roundly 
declared  that  British  customs  were  practically 
universal  on  the  Continent;  that  he  had 
never  beheld  Frenchmen  eating  snails;  and 
that — this  in  the  'forties — ]Mrs.  Darbisher 
would  be  certain  of  getting  a  delicious  cup  of 
tea  anywhere  she  liked. 

Behind  Lionel's  back,  ^Nlrs.  Darbisher 
caught  ^Mark's  eye,  and  winked  her  own 
solemnly.  After  that  wink,  Mark  liked  her 
much  better.  The  next  day,  visiting  her 
again,  he  again  reassured  her  as  to  the 
comforts  and  security  of  the  Continent;  but 
there  was  a  twitch  now  at  the  corners  of  his 
own  humorous  mouth;  and  he  respected 
her,  seeing  she  did  not  believe  him,  thought 
her  chances  of  safety  bad,  and  of  enjoyment 
nil,  and  yet  was  going  to  take  them,  for 
Lionel's  sake. 


MY  LADY  243 

Before  they  left  Basset,  she  made  a  fare- 
well visit  to  Rachel  Pilkington,  whom  she  had 
not  seen  since  the  great  dcnoument. 

Mrs.  Darbisher's  mental  giddiness  and 
aptitude  for  verbal  quips  and  cranks  was  by 
now — to  Harry  Latimer's  especial  satisfac- 
tion— almost  restored.  She  kissed  Rachel  on 
both  cheeks,  sank  suddenly,  by  great  good 
luck  on  to  an  armchair  instead  of  the  floor, 
not  having  taken  any  bearings  first,  and 
ejaculated,  when  she  recovered  her  breath 
(she  had  walked  from  the  Chantry),  "Well, 
that  was  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish,  wasn't  it?" 

Rachel,  with  a  very  kind,  distressed  face, 
said,  just  as  she  had  said  to  Dr.  Benet,  that 
she  was  indeed  terribly  sorry  for  Lionel,  but 
that  it  was  right  Ann  should  follow  the 
dictates  of  her  heart. 

"Heart!"  says  INIrs.  Darbisher,  looking 
at  Rachel  with  a  queer,  quizzical  expression. 
"  Well,  Buppy  isn't  going  to  break  his,  so 
she  can  do  what  she  likes  with  hers.  And  T 
dare  say  it  k  very  pleasant  to  be  called  my 
lady.     Where  are  they  now?" 

JNIiss  Pilkington  produced  a  letter  from  a 
reticule,  and  prudently  read  aloud  such  parts 
only  as  described,  safely,  and  tediously,  the 
monuments  and  sights  of  London. 


244  BASSET 

Very  shortly  afterwards,  there  drove 
through  Basset  the  cumbered  travelhng 
carriage  jMiss  Pilkington  and  Ann  had  once 
beheld  from  their  windows,  with  the  same 
young  horseman  riding  at  the  side.  Only 
now,  his  handsome  face  was  less  ingenuous, 
confident,  and  satisfied;  he  had  lost  some  of 
the  eager  and  generous  trust  of  3'outh,  and 
gained  in  its  place — a  poor  exchange  indeed 
— prudence  and  knowledge  of  life.  But 
now,  too,  when  his  mother's  flighty  head 
popped  out  of  the  window,  he  stopped  to 
listen  to  her  erratic  and  meandering  remarks 
Avith  an  air  less  annoyed  and  inattentive;  and 
it  may  even  be  that,  as  his  patience  increased, 
she  made  smaller  demands  upon  it. 

So  that  Ann  Thornbery  had  had  her  use 
and  her  meaning. 

The  Darbishers  being  safely  out  of  the 
Chantry,  Basset  was  not  entirely  surjDrised  to 
hear,  before  the  end  of  that  exciting  summer, 
that  Sir  John  and  liis  bride  intended  to  come 
back  to  it. 

In  point  of  fact,  about  the  beginning  of 
September,  its  blinds  were  pulled  up  again; 
Adoli^he,  the  French  cook,  various  female 
servants,  and  great  quantities  of  luggage  were 
driven  through  the  village;  and  Lady  Railton 


MY  LADY      .  245 

wrote  Rachel  a  little  note  to  say  they  were 
returning  on  Thursday,  and  she  should  run 
down  on  Friday  morning  to  kiss  her  aunt 
and  tell  her  all  they  had  been  doing.  Miss 
Pilkington  prepared  a  homily  for  the  bride's 
benefit — as  in  duty  bound,  and  not  at  all 
liking  the  task — but,  after  all,  it  was  Sir 
John  who  came,  in  his  wife's  place. 

Ann  was  busy,  he  said,  unpacking  her  frills 
and  furbelows,  and  had  sent  him  instead. 
He  took  a  chair  in  Miss  Pilkington's  small 
parlour — where  he  and  Ann  had  spent  a 
certain  Sunday  afternoon,  whispering  very 
softly,  with  Sarah  keeping  guard  without — 
and  was  easy  and  at  home  at  once.  His 
sarcastic  and  ugly  face  softened  as  he  talked. 
Of  the  past  he  hardly  said  anything,  except 
to  make  a  vague  apology  for  the  trouble 
and  anxiety  late  events  must  have  caused 
Miss  Pilkington.  But  he  inquired  after  her 
health  with  a  genuine  kindness  and  sympathy, 
and  had  an  air  of  finding  her  society  pleasant 
and  restful.  It  is  certain,  at  least,  that,  after 
his  first  visit,  that  old  fool  Rachel  never 
again  believed  the  stories  that  were  told  to 
his  discredit,  and  had  in  his  character  and 
goodness  the  faith  which  can  remove  moun- 
tains— of  proof. 


246  BASSET 

As  he  was  leaving,  he  asked  her  to  dine  at 
the  Chantry  on  the  following  day.  "  How 
very  good  of  Ann!"  says  fervent  Rachel, 
taking  it  as  a  message. 

When  Sir  John  got  back  he  told  Ann 
what  he  had  done,  and  she  observed,  not  ill- 
temperedly,  but  in  a  voice  rather  more  sur- 
prised than  delighted,  "Have  you?  How 
ver}^  soon!  " 

It  cannot  be  said  that  Rachel  exactly 
enjoyed  that  dinner,  at  which  she  was  the 
only  guest.  To  be  sure,  Ann's  manner  was 
her  usual  amiable  and  pretty  manner;  and 
Rachel  was  gratified  to  see  a  Pilkington  in 
a  Pilkington's  proper  place^that  is,  at  the 
head  of  a  substantial  house  and  of  many 
servants.  That  her  niece  was  alreadj^  per- 
fectly assured  and  easy  in  that  position,  was 
as  it  should  be;  but,  all  the  same,  that 
assio'ance  seemed  to  set  the  little,  insignifi- 
cant aunt  below  the  salt;  and  the  most 
unworldly  of  human  creatures  realized  that 
night  the  advantages  of  the  wealth  she  had 
not,  and  the  position  she  had  only  thought 
she  had. 

Sir  John,  indeed,  did  something  to  restore 
her  self-esteem — and  so  her  content — by  re- 
calling the  evenings  he  had  enjoyed  at  her 


MY  LADY  247 

father's  hospitable  table  in  old  days,  and 
asking  after,  or  telling  her  of,  various  friends 
he  had  met  there. 

A  few  days  later,  he  again  gratified  her 
by  calling  at  the  White  Cottage,  and  planting 
a  large  basket  of  peaches  and  nectarines  on 
her  table,  said  firmly,  "  From  Ann,  with  her 
best  love." 

IMiss  Pilkington,  looking  up  to  express 
her  gratitude — always  much  warmer  than 
the  occasion  demanded, — thought  his  face 
certainly  extremely  sardonic,  and,  as  such, 
belying  his  nature.  He  stopped  and  talked 
to  her  for  half  an  hour;  and  when  he  had 
left,  Rachel  remembered  that,  except  that 
once,  he  had  never  mentioned  Ann's  name. 

That  evening,  as  he  sat  stretched  lazily 
in  a  deej)  chair  in  his  mother's  parlour,  he 
watched  his  wife  very  attentively  out  of  his 
narrow,  bright  eyes,  as  she  was  working  at 
Lady  Lucy's  table. 

When  was  it  that  he  had  first  known  that 
this  was  no  bird,  fluttering  under  his  hand,  to 
his  heart;  that  it  was  not  she  who  had  been 
caught  unawares  in  the  snare  of  the  fowler? 
The  bitterest  irony  of  such  mistakes  is  that 
one  realizes  them  so  soon,  and  yet  just  not 
soon  enough.    In  the  early  days  of  the  honey- 


248  BASSET 

moon  he  had  found  out  how  quietly  and  simply 
clever  Ann  had  been.  He  was  finding  out 
now  every  day  what  an  irreproachable  wife 
she  was  going  to  make  him;  how  much  she 
had  his  interests — since  they  were  identical 
with  her  own — at  heart;  how  she  would 
make  him  take  his  proper  ])\sice  in  the 
County;  be  duly  magnificent,  without  undue 
extravagance;  and  spend  his  money  sensibly 
and  suitably  in  entertaining  his  equals. 

Presently  he  asked  her  to  sing,  and  with 
perfect  readiness  and  good  nature,  she 
divested  the  harj)  of  its  brown  holland 
clothes,  and  sang,  "  Angels  ever  bright  and 
fair,"  with  exactly  the  same  expression,  and 
only  looking  less  angelic  because  she  was 
more  handsomely  dressed,  as  she  had  sung 
it  at  the  JNIanor. 

Her  husband,  who  had  not  changed  his 
negligent  attitude,  watched  her  closely  all 
the  time.  How  easily,  and  how  short  a 
time  ago,  the  singer  and  song  had  cajoled 
him! 

In  due  course,  things  came  about  just  as 
he  had  anticipated.  Ann,  having  had  the 
Chantry  pew  nicely  redecorated  and  up- 
holstered, her  husband  followed  her  into  it 
on    Sunday    morning — in    fact,    on    Sunday 


MY  LADY  249 

mornings — rather  indolently,  a  few  paces 
behind  her,  and  with  his  eyes  lazy  and 
cynical.  He  drove  with  her  to  call  on  the 
County  in  a  new  landaulette  with  a  couple  of 
handsome  greys — the  County,  whom  he  had 
neglected  for  years,  and  who  received  him  as 
the  prodigal— reformed  by  Ann. 

He  soon  found  out  that  she  would  be 
much  at  Basset,  because  there  she  was  lady- 
paramount — the  only  really  wealthy  and  well- 
dressed  woman  in  the  place — while  in  town 
there  were  hundreds  of  other  baronets'  ladies, 
richer  and  finer.  The  frank  admiration  in 
Pollie  Latimer's  ej^es  of  her  lovely  clothes, 
and  Harry's  palpable  delight  in  her  lovely 
face,  were  a  more  acceptable  homage  than 
the  careless  approval  of  strangers.  Even  the 
uncompromising  hostility  of  Mrs.  Benet's 
countenance,  when  Sir  John  and  his  bride 
met  that  lady  one  day  in  the  village,  was 
also  really  a  comiDliment — indifference  is  the 
only  insult. 

It  was  on  the  very  tip  of  Mrs.  Benet's 
tongue,  as  she  afterwards  confessed,  to  in- 
quire of  the  pair  if  they  had  had  any  news 
of  Lionel  Darbisher — and  she  refrained  solely 
to  oblige  Dick.  As  it  was,  as  they  turned 
away,   Ann  certainly   had   some  justification 


250  BASSET 

for  saying,  rather  warmly  for  her,  "  That  is 
the  rudest  old  woman  I  ever  saw!" 

Fortunately,  in  marriage,  as  with  St. 
Denis  and  his  head,  "  ce  n'est  que  le  premier 
pas  qui  coute,"  in  the  sense  that,  beside  the 
first  six  months  of  an  ill-assorted  union,  the 
next  sixty  j^ears  are  comparatively  easy. 

With  Sir  John  there  was  really  a  grim  and 
ironical  satisfaction  in  finding  himself  turned 
into  a  well-regulated  domestic  character; 
Ann  s  wa3%  wliich,  gentlj^  obstinate,  she 
always  took,  was,  after  all,  nearly  alwaj^s  the 
right  way;  and  he  had  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  he  held  the  final  trump  card  of 
decision  and  mastery — if  it  were  ever  worth 
while  to  use  it. 

In  a  very  short  time,  he  took  to  spending 
one  or  two  evenings  a  week  with  old  Grant 
at  the  Rector}^  Now  he  was  absolutely  and 
finall}'  her  own,  Ann  fortunately  saw  no  use 
in  her  husband's  dancing  attendance  on  her 
— excejit  in  public — and  was  not  eocigeante. 

So  Peter  and  John  sat  together  in  Peter's 
rarely  dusted  study,  and  smoked,  and  said 
little.  No  allusion  to  Sir  John's  marriage, 
scarcely  even  Ann's  name,  ever  passed  Peter's 
lips.  Had  he  grasped,  dull  and  limited  as  he 
was,  that  the  situation  was  not  merely  one 


MY  LADY  251 

where  it  was  impossible  to  offer  sympathy, 
but  one  where  it  was  impossible  to  show 
there  was  the  smallest  occasion  for  such  an 
offer?  Or  was  it  simply  that  he  was  like  old 
Rover — Rover,  with  his  black,  cold  nose  and 
shaggy  head  rubbing  in  one's  hand — a  good 
comforter  because  he  coiild  not  speak?  Per- 
haps the  escapades  of  their  past  made  a  bond 
between  the  two  men;  and  both  knew  they 
had  no  future. 

The  Parson  was  the  battered  hulk,  which 
had  once  taken  a  short  and  prosperous 
voyage — to  Ed  Dorado.  Beside  him,  on  a 
quiet  shore,  there  might  well  lie,  in  undis- 
turbed neglect,  the  wreck  of  the  fine  ship 
which  had  foundered  through  a  defect  in 
the  rudder. 


CHAPTER  X 

AN   ENDING 

The  winter  after  the  elopement  set  in  early, 
rigorous  and  dull.  The  Chantrj^  blinds  were 
pulled  down  again,  and  Sir  John  and  JNIy 
Lady  retreated  to  the  bald,  blank,  family 
mansion  in  Norfolk — it  being  still  the  fashion 
to  fight,  not  flee,  the  British  climate — Lord 
Brougham  ha\dng  but  just  invented  Cannes 
for  the  benefit  of  the  upper  classes. 

At  the  jNIanor,  JNIrs.  Latimer  evolved  a 
new  salad  dressing  and  a  fresh  stitch  in 
wool-work;  advanced  to  the  irregular  verbs 
in  Latin — Tommy  being  five,  and  already 
in  declensions;  and  subscribed  to  the 
Quarterly,  feeling  dimly  apologetic  towards 
Harry  for  that  assumption  of  intelligence. 

Things  at  the  Rectory  went  on  as  usual; 
they  always  went  on  as  usual. 

Absolutely  the  only  on  dit  of  Basset  was 
that  old  Doctor  was  doing  less  work  and  the 
young  one  was  doing  more. 

It  was  certainly  at  a  much  earher  hour 
252 


AN  ENDING  253 

of  an  afternoon  that  Richard  descended  from 
the  gig,  laid  the  reins  across  Neck-or- 
Nothing's  sleeping  back,  and  came  up  the 
flagged  path  to  meet  his  wife. 

"  You're  getting  lazy,  Dick,"  she  said  on 
one  such  occasion,  as  they  returned  to  the 
house  together;  and  he  answered,  in  his  thick, 
cheerful,  old  voice,  "I'm  getting  uncommonly 
fond  of  my  own  fireside,  Jeannie." 

Another  day,  when  she  had  divested  him  of 
the  rugs,  coats,  and  comforters  which  turned 
him  into  a  bundle  entirely  filling  their  little 
hall,  a  sudden  thought  struck  her. 

"  Why,  Dick!  "  she  said,  with  a  sharp  note 
in  her  voice,  "  you're  thinner  than  you  used 
to  be." 

"  And  you're  fatter,  Jeannie,"  says  Dick, 
with  his  blue  eye  twinkling  at  her.  But 
Jeannie  was  not  to  be  distracted  into  by- 
paths by  animadversions  on  her  figure,  to 
which  she  was  perfectly  indifferent. 

"  I  shall  fatten  you  up,"  she  said,  decidedly, 
as  if  he  had  been  a  prize  fowl.  And,  lo! 
the  next  morning  at  breakfast  there  was  a 
slimy  substance  floating  on  the  Doctor's  tea, 
which,  on  questioning,  he  found  to  be  the 
yolk  of  an  egg,  recommended  in  the  manu- 
script    Recipe-book — which     had     descended 


254  BASSET 

from  Jeannie's  aunt — as  being  a  capital  secret 
remedy  for  debility  and  emaciation,  and  not 
likely  to  be  detected  by  the  patient  "  unless 
of  a  suspicious  character."  Dr.  Benet  cried 
off  that  panacea;  but  the  prodigality  with 
which  cream  and  butter  were  inserted  into 
his  puddings,  Jeannie  would  certainly  have 
thought  sinful  in  a  less  excellent  cause. 

One  evening,  when  Spencer  was  sitting 
with  them  as  usual,  old  Benet  left  the  dining- 
parlour  for  a  few  minutes  to  see  a  patient  in 
the  surgery.  Jeannie  looked  up  from  her 
novel.  "  Do  you  think  Dick's  getting  thin?  " 
she  said,  her  shrewd  eyes  fixed  keenly  on 
JMark's  face. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  "  I  think 
he's  getting  old,"  said  JNIark. 

"Old!"  answered  Jeannie,  very  sharply. 
"  He's  sixty-nine — that  isn't  old." 

"  David  thought  it  was,"  replied  Spencer. 

Mrs.  Benet  gave  a  snort,  as  if  to  say 
she  had  no  opinion  of  the  opinion  of  the 
Psalmist. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Spencer, 
after  they  had  both  been  silent  a  few  minutes 
behind  their  books,  "  I  think  the  Doctor 
wants  a  few  days'  holiday." 

In  the  era  of  stage-coaches  and  expensive 


AN  ENDING  255 

travelling  it  was  not  merely  convenient  but 
necessary  to  think  that,  in  a  general  way, 
one's  complaints  healed  as  well  and  as  quickly 
in  one's  native  place  as  anywhere  else;  and 
perhaps  they  did. 

Since  his  marriage  the  Doctor  had  never 
slept  out  of  his  home  for  a  single  night. 
There  had  been  an  epoch,  not  long  ago, 
when  he  ailed  somewhat,  and  it  had  been 
his  wife's  great  ambition  to  get  him  away 
for  a  week  or  two.  With  that  end  in  view, 
she  had  a  netted  purse  upstairs,  mysteriously 
labelled  "  Pig,"  containing  a  few  guineas 
derived  from  the  sale  of  the  inmates  of  the 
sty  in  the  back-garden,  and  forming  a  Change 
of  Air  Fund. 

She  thought  of  that  fund  now,  shut  her 
eyes,  did  a  short  sum  in  her  head — small, 
but  serviceable  exceedingly,  was  Jeannie's 
arithmetic — and  said,  very  decidedly,  "  Dick 
shall  go." 

Mark  entered  into  the  plan  with  a  warmth 
he  did  not  often  show,  and  the  quick  decision 
and  mastery  natural  to  him.  He  had,  it 
appeared,  a  doctor  friend  in  Cavendish 
Square — name,  Adams — who  would  not  only 
be  delighted  to  have  Dr.  Benet  as  his  guest, 
but    to    show    him    the    sights    of    London 


256  BASSET 

in  general,  and  such  things  in  particular  as 
would  appeal  to  them  both  professionally. 

When  old  Benet  returned  from  the 
surgery  and  this  plan  for  his  welfare  was 
communicated  to  him,  though  he  laughed 
a  little  and  said,  "  I  dare  say,  Jeannie!  it  is 
very  easy  to  dispose  of  me  like  that,"  he 
did  not  raise  the  objections  to  it  his  wife 
had  expected. 

After  fixing  a  very  firm  eye  on  both  his 
face  and  Spencer's,  she  said,  "  I  believe  you 
two  have  been  putting  your  heads  together 
and  have  arranged  this  alread}^  behind  my 
back." 

Spencer,  who,  as  a  far  more  accomplished 
deceiver  than  old  Benet,  knew  when  honesty 
was  the  best  policy,  replied,  "  I  did  suggest 
it  to  the  Doctor,  but  he  said  he  wouldn't 
leave  you." 

Mrs.  Benet  went  off  at  the  tangent,  as 
Mark,  perhaps,  had  hoped. 

"Leave  me!"  she  cried,  very  indignantly. 
"  Does  the  man  suppose  some  one  will  run  off 
with  me?"  (Indeed,  to  look  at  ]Mrs.  Benet, 
this  appeared  a  remote  contingency.)  "  I 
shall  get  my  cleaning  done,  and  be  thankful 
to  do  it;"  and  in  her  mental  vision,  Jeannie 
saw   a   satisfactory   picture   of   the   furniture 


AN  ENDING  257 

in  the  back-garden,  and  herself  and  INIaggie 
enthusiasticallj^  scrubbing  every  floor  in  the 
house;  throwing  in,  if  there  was  time,  a 
little  amateur  whitewashing  of  ceilings  as 
well. 

After  that,  the  arrangements  for  the  visit 
went  on  apace.  Spencer  did  not  appear 
to  hurry  them;  but  he  certainly  removed 
obstacles  from  their  path.  He  evinced  great 
sanguineness  as  to  the  recovery  of  a  certain 
bad  case  Dr.  Richard  had  been  doubtful  of 
leaving;  and  went  so  far  as  to  express,  what 
perhaps  he  always  felt,  a  good  deal  of  con- 
fidence in  his  own  professional  powers. 

Once  Jeannie  said  to  her  old  man,  rather 
severely,  "  And  why,  pray,  is  this  Dr.  Adams 
so  anxious  to  entertain  you  in  his  house  when 
he  has  never  seen  you?" 

Richard,  with  his  chuckle,  made  answer, 
"  Why,  that's  the  reason,  Jeannie;  he 
wouldn't  be  so  anxious  if  he  had  seen  me." 

"  Don't  you  eat  unwholesome  food  late  at 
night  to  please  him"  says  Jeannie,  beholding 
her  lord  in  fancy  at  the  rich  man's  table. 
"  And  tell  him  I  give  you  milk  and  an  egg 
beaten  up  with  brandy  before  you  go  to  bed. 
I  shan't  send  any  of  your  thin  underclothing, 
so  you  can't  put  on  your  summer  shirts — by 


258  BASSET 

mistake/'  she  added,  nodding  at  him  mean- 
ingly. 

Richard  gave  all  the  promises  required. 
"  But  I  don't  like  leaving  j^ou,  Jeannie,"  he 
said,  "  I'm  never  comfortable  away  from  you 
—that's  the  truth." 

It  was  their  last  evening,  and  they  were 
cording  the  luggage  in  the  dining-room.  JNIrs. 
Benet  said  "Nonsense!"  very  loudly  and 
firmly;  and  went  immediately  into  the 
kitchen,  for  more  cord. 

The  next  morning  when,  in  the  cold  and 
early  dawn,  the  gig  was  waiting  to  convey  the 
traveller  to  Dilchester,  there  to  meet  the 
London  coach,  INIrs.  Benet  had  wrapped  him 
up  in  so  many  and  so  stout  layers  of  coats 
and  shawls  that  he  could  scarceh^  stretch  over 
himself  to  kiss  her.  His  good  old  face, 
coming  up  out  of  the  bandages,  struck  her 
suddenly  and  anew  as  thin  and  white.  Cer- 
tainly, Dick  wanted  a  holiday!  She  gave 
his  shoulder  a  resounding  smack,  and  said, 
''  Now,  mind  you  enjoy  yourself;  "  slipped  a 
large  flask  of  very  sound  port  wine  into  one 
of  his  outer  pockets,  came  with  him  down  the 
garden  path,  waved  at  him  with  great  vigour 
and  cheerfulness  till  he  had  disappeared  from 
sight,  and  then  returned  briskly  to  the  dining- 


AN  ENDING  259 

room,  which  she  began  to  clean  with  immense 
energy,  taking  no  heed  of  two  large  tears 
rmming  down  her  fat  cheeks. 

Spencer  constantly  came  in  to  see  her; 
and  she  read  extracts  to  him  from  her  old 
man's  letters. 

Mark  also  heard  from  his  partner;  but 
he  did  not  offer  to  read  aloud  any  part  of 
these  communications;  they  were,  he  said, 
entirely  professional.  Not  once,  but  several 
times,  he  roused  INIrs.  Benet's  ire  by  again 
rather  pointedly  alluding  to  her  husband 
as  old. 

"  I  suppose,"  says  Jeannie,  not  without 
snappishness,  "  you  think  any  one  over  thirty- 
five  is  in  his  dotage."  (Thirty-five  was 
Silencer's  precise  age.) 

"  That's  just  about  it,"  says  Mark,  laugh- 
ing. And  he  looked  at  her  almost  com- 
passionately. 

The  fortnight  came  to  an  end  at  last.  On 
a  murky,  raining  evening — it  was  now  No- 
vember— Neck-or-Nothing  brought  his  master 
from  Dilchester. 

In  the  narrow  little  hall  it  was  too  dark  to 
see  anything  clearly;  but  when  the  Doctor, 
unwrapped,  came  into  the  living-room,  bright 
with  fire  and  candles,  and  his  wife  looked  up 


26o  BASSET 

into  his  face — a  sudden  dreadful  premonition 
closed  its  icy  hand  ujDon  her  heart. 

Had  he  foreseen,  and  arranged  for,  her 
penetration?  He  said  instantly  that  he  had 
found  the  journey  cold  and  long,  and  that 
he  was  vCrj^  tired.  She  gave  him  his  supper 
— how  much  energy  and  pleasure  she  had  put 
into  its  preparation — and  asked  him  some  of 
the  questions  she  had  been  longing  to  ask  for 
a  fortnight  about  Dr.  Adams'  character  and 
cuisine.  But  the  answers  fell  on  a  mind  quite 
j)re-absorbed. 

Over  their  tea,  Richard  told  her  how  much 
pleasanter  he  found  their  own  homely  house 
and  ways  than  the  solid  magnificence  of 
Cavendish  Square,  and  leant  forward  to  pat 
her  hand  in  the  old  fashion.  She  turned 
away  at  once  to  fetch  their  books — the 
Doctor's  marker  was  still  in  "  INIidshipman 
Easy  "  in  the  i^lace  where  he  had  left  off 
a  fortnight  before — and  they  sat  and  read  as 
usual;  only,  now  and  then,  he  looked  up  to 
tell  her  of  something  he  had  done  or  seen  on 
his  visit. 

At  nine  o'clock  he  said  that,  as  he  was  so 
tired,  he  would  go  to  bed;  and  a  look  of 
relief  stole  into  her  eyes. 

She  and  IM aggie  warmed  the  bed  briskly 


AN  ENDING  261 

and  thoroughly  with  the  warming-pan,  and 
when  the  Doctor  was  cosily  settled  in  it — 
with  his  nightcap,  in  the  shape  of  a  jelly-bag, 
with  a  red  tassel  on  the  top,  surmounting  his 
simple,  sensible  face — Jeannie  brought  him 
a  hot  drink  of  no  little  potency,  and  saw  him 
finish  it  to  the  last  drop. 

Then  she  went  downstairs,  put  on  her 
clogs,  the  same  old  shawl  and  bonnet  in 
which,  months  earlier,  she  had  gone  to  nurse 
Spencer,  took  the  family  gingham  umbrella, 
and  walked  quickly,  in  a  black  and  streaming 
rain,  to  Myrtle  Cottage.  Before  her  hand 
reached  the  knocker,  Mark  was  at  the  door — 
almost  as  if  he  had  expected  her.  She  went 
into  his  sitting-room  without  a  word,  took  the 
first  chair  she  saw,  leaning  her  dripping 
umbrella  against  her  ample  skirts,  and  then 
said  firmly,  "  What's  the  matter  with  my  old 
man?" 

Spencer  looked  at  her  keen  and  penetrat- 
ing eyes,  at  the  rough  bare  hand,  as  steady  as 
a  rock,  upon  her  knee;  and  told  her. 

She  listened  intently,  without  interrupting 
by  a  single  question. 

When  he  had  finished,  she  said,  "  Does 
Dick  know  all  this  himself?" 

"  He's  too  shrewd  not  to  know — as  much 


262  BASSET 

as  we  do,"  answered  Spencer.  He  did  not 
add  how  many  times  during  the  last  few 
weeks  he  had  wished  the  Doctor  had  been 
indeed  the  fool,  he  (Spencer)  had  once  been 
fool  enough  to  think  him. 

A  coal  fell  out  of  the  fire  on  to  the  hearth, 
and  Jeannie  turned  her  old  head  with  a 
frown,  as  if  the  noise  jarred  on  her. 

"Is  there  anything  to  be  done?"  she  said 
huskily. 

It  had,  of  course,  often  been  Spencer's 
duty — and  a  duty,  alas !  to  which  he  had  never 
grown  hardened — to  scourge  and  flay  with 
the  truth;  but  he  had  never  found  that  duty 
more  difficult  than  to-night. 

"  Nothing — that  can  bring  about  his  re- 
covery," he  said;  knowing  that  it  was  more 
merciful  to  hit  hard  once  than  to  hit  soft 
often.  "  Dr.  Adams  has  had  him  under  close 
observation  for  a  fortnight,  and  he  came  to 
the  same  conclusion.  But  everything  that 
science  can  do  to  ease  him,  will  be 
done." 

"  And  that's  very  little,"  says  old  Jeannie, 
with  great  bitterness. 

"  It's  more  every  day,"  answered  jMark. 

He  knew  much  better  than  to  offer  her 
any  advice  as  to  her  own  conduct,  and  the 


AN  ENDING  263 

necessity  for  cheerfulness.  He  could  let  the 
counsel  of  her  own  heart  stand. 

Presently,  when  the  rivulet  from  her  um- 
brella had  nearly  reached  one  of  Spencer's 
large  feet,  she  got  up,  and  said,  in  a  voice 
not  greatly  different  from  her  usual  voice — 

"  Well,  I  supx^ose  it's  getting  late." 

Spencer  saw  her  out  of  the  door  into  the 
dark  night,  and  then  forced  his  attention 
upon  the  book  he  had  been  reading  when  she 
came. 

When  Jeannie  reached  home,  she  sent 
Maggie  to  bed,  locked  up  the  house,  and 
uj^stairs,  shading  the  candle  with  her  capable 
hand,  looked  in  at  the  bed-curtains  on  her 
husband.  Calm,  regular  snores  announced 
he  was  asleep,  and  in  sleep  the  face  looked 
less  drawn  and  changed.  She  performed  her 
simjDle  toilette  very  softly,  and — lying  awake 
by  the  good,  night-capped  head,  which  for 
forty  years  had  rested  near  her  own  with  but 
one  fortnight's  interruption — swallowed  sobs 
in  her  aching  throat,  and  when  the  winter 
dawn  came,  "  slejit  for  sorrow." 

Dr.  Adams  came  down  from  London  the 
next  week  to  see  his  patient;  and  by  that 
time  all  Basset  knew  of  the  loss  which  over- 
shadowed them. 


264  BASSET 

Hopeful  Harry  could  by  no  manner  of 
means  bring  bimself  to  believe  in  such  a 
calamity,  and  said  to  Pollie  that  he  had 
always  thought  Spencer  with  liis  long  face 
a  deuce  of  a  killjoy,  and  how  could  any  doc- 
tor see  what  was  going  on  inside  you? 

Still,  the  "  riddle  of  the  painful  earth  "  did 
perplex  him  for  a  few  minutes  as  he  rode  into 
Dilchester;  until  he  met  a  brother  squire — a 
cheerful  soul — and  forgot,  as  we  all  forget, 
to  find  life  tolerable. 

As  for  Pollie,  she  went  straight  into  the 
kitchen  to  make  her  famous  calf's-foot  jelly, 
with  a  shadow  in  her  eyes,  and  a  protest  in 
her  ardent  heart — Why? 

Spencer  also  had  found  that  question  con- 
fronting him  as  he  strained  every  nerve  and 
power  to  find  a  remed}^;  and  knew,  all  the 
time,  in  his  soul,  there  was  none. 

JNIrs.  Latimer  had  left  the  jelly  on  the 
Benets  without  asking  to  see  them,  knowing 
— whether  by  instinct  or  experience — those 
who  greatly  suffer  would  fain  suffer  alone. 

Rachel  Pilkington,  less  wise,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes  and  bubbhng  sympathy  in  her 
heart — good  measure,  pressed  down  and 
running  over — expressed  it  to  INIrs.  Benet 
with  an  emotion  and  fen'our  which,   as  en- 


AN  ENDING  265 

danserins  to  old  Jeannie's  stern  and  difficult 
self-control,  enraged  her  with  Miss  Pilking- 
ton,  and  made  her  manner  exceeding  gruff 
and  abrupt. 

Lady  Railton  wrote  a  really  kind  little 
note  to  JNIrs.  Benet,  of  whom  she  had  cer- 
tainly had  no  reason  to  be  fond. 

Sir  John,  unknown  to  his  wife,  sent  a  very 
handsome  cheque  to  Peter  Grant,  directing 
his  cousin  to  spend  it  for  the  Doctor's  com- 
fort without  revealing  its  source.  Peter, 
having  tramped  into  Dilchester,  purchased 
a  few  strangely  selected  comforts  for  the 
sufferer,  and  presented  them  to  Mrs.  Benet 
with  so  much  guilty  embarrassment  that  she 
began  to  think  he  had  stolen  them;  whereas 
Peter  was  really  one  of  those  unlucky  persons 
who  are  transparently  honest,  not  from 
principle,  but  because  they  cannot  help  it. 

Of  all  the  village,  it  was  the  old  Doctor 
himself  who  took  the  most  calmly  the  fate  he 
had  foreseen  long  before  a  word  of  his  appre- 
hension had  passed  his  lips.  For  three  or 
four  weeks  after  his  return  from  London,  he 
was  well  enough  to  see  some  of  his  patients, 
and  saw  them. 

But  gradually  he  attended  fewer,  and 
fewer  still. 


2  66  BASSET 

Presently  he  took  to  breakfasting  in  bed. 
For  a  time  he  was  able,  when  he  came  down, 
to  walk  round  the  little  garden,  with  his  old 
plaid  about  his  shoulders,  look  at  the  cabbage 
stalks  with  the  November  frost  on  them, 
the  pigs  in  the  sty,  and  the  chickens,  which 
he  ruefully  wished  would  lay  even  fewer 
eggs  than  they  did,  since  Jeannie  manfully 
insisted  on  his  eating  them  all.  Not,  indeed, 
that  she  greatly  worried  him  by  feeding  him 
up;  Spencer  had  told  her  that  would  be 
very  futile.  But  how  could  she  help  some- 
times, when  for  a  day  or  two  he  did  look 
better  and  eat  better,  hoping  against  hope 
and  knowledge  that,  after  all,  there  might  be 
a  mistake  somewhere,  as  Richard  himself, 
with  all  his  inborn  genius  for  diagnosis,  had 
made  mistakes  in  his  time? 

For  a  long  while  he  could  enjoy  their 
cosy  evenings  as  heretofore;  chuckle  a  little 
over  the  latest  INIarrj^at  or  Dickens,  as 
Jeannie  mended  the  house  linen,  or  looked 
above  Lady  Blessington,  deep  into  the  heart 
of  the  fire. 

She  roused  herself  from  one  such  reverie 
to  say,  "  Dick!  you  ought  to  have  told  me  at 
once — when  j^ou  first  felt  ill.  You  hadn't  any 
business  to  deceive  me." 


AN  ENDING  267 

He  recalled  his  thoughts  slowly  from  his 
book,  and  answered  simply,  "  It  was  the  first 
time,  Jeannie." 

There  was  no  necessity  to  add  that  it 
would  be  the  last. 

Another  night,  it  was  old  Richard  who  fell 
into  reverie.  Jeannie,  making  him  a  very 
warm  new  night-shirt,  was  really  absorbed  in 
"  seam  and  gusset  and  band."  Her  old  man 
got  up  and  stood  by  the  fire — a  short,  and 
not  heroic  figure — and  looked  down  at  her. 

"  It's  been  a  very  good  world  for  us, 
Jeannie,"  he  said.  "  And  the  parsons  say 
the  next'll  be  better." 

"  Much  they  know  about  it  that  we  don't," 
says  Jeannie,  hoarsely,  stitching  for  life,  and 
not  raising  her  head  from  the  work. 

"  And  j^et,  j^ou  know,"  says  the  Doctor, 
putting  his  hand  firmly  on  her  shoulder  as 
she  sewed  doggedly,  "  though  I  have  seen 
more  suffering  and  sin  than  most  men  see,  I 
suppose,  yet  I  think  that  if  this  world  can  be 
so  happy,  there  maj^  well  be  a  happier  yet;  " 
and  his  old  hand  stroked  her  stout  arm  softly, 
and  settled  on  the  fingers  with  the  needle  in 
them,  which  tried  to  go  on  working  all  the 
same,  while  the  worker  fought  for  her  self- 
control. 


268  BASSET 

"  And  the  one  thing  we  always  wanted, 
we  have  now,"  old  Richard  went  on,  "  a  son 
in  our  old  age." 

At  that  moment,  with  a  bang  and  a  clatter 
of  crockerj'-,  Maggie  entered  with  the  tea- 
tray,  wearing — in  obedience  to  a  command  of 
Spencer's  that  she  was  not  to  cry  and  look 
dismal — a  broad,  set,  fatuous  smile,  which  he 
never  saw  Avithout  reflecting  on  the  wisdom 
of  minding  one's  own  business. 

Jeannie  got  up  at  once  to  busy  herself 
with  the  tea-making,  with  her  head  turned 
away  from  her  lord;  bade  him,  shortly  and 
grumpily,  sit  down  and  enjoy  his  tea 
properh^ ;  arranged  a  shawl  round  his  worsted- 
stockinged  legs — draughts  were  the  only  ven- 
tilation of  the  day,  and  very  thorough  and 
searching  they  could  be — and  with  an  air  of 
stern  displeasure,  which  Richard  did  not  mis- 
interpret, drank  her  own  tea  by  his  side. 

When  the  cups  were  put  back  on  the  tray, 
she  collected  her  forces,  and  said,  in  a  voice 
that  suppressed  feeling  made  harsh,  what  she 
had  been  struggling  to  say  for  many  evenings. 

"  Richard,  you're  to  tell  me  what  you'd 
like  me  to  do — afterwards." 

He  looked  at  her  under  the  shagg}''  eye- 
brows to  which  Rachel  Pilkington  objected. 


AN  ENDING  269 

and  said  at  once,  "  Why,  you'll  know  that, 
Jeannie,  when  the  time  comes.  You  always 
know." 

Then,  lighting  by  sure  instinct  on  the 
only  consolation  he  could  give  her,  he  added 
simply,  "  You'll  be  glad — presently — Jeannie, 
I  should  go  first.  I  should  have  missed  you 
worse  than  you  could  miss  me." 

That  Jeannie  said  "  No!  "  very  loudly  and 
suddenly,  did  not  turn  him  from  his  point. 

"  Yes,  old  woman,  yes,"  he  said,  nodding 
and  looking  at  her  with  his  wise,  blue  eyes. 
"  Why,  we're  always  more  dependent  on  you 
than  you  are  on  us.  You've  said  so  many  a 
time." 

Jeannie  said  briefly,  "  You're  more 
cheated,"  and  having  come  to  the  end  of  her 
tether  for  the  time,  took  up  the  night-shirt 
and  sewed  at  it  again,  defiantly. 

Sometimes,  Spencer  came  in  in  the  even- 
ings; but  less  often  than  of  yore,  and  for  a 
shorter  time. 

As  the  days  went  on,  the  old  Doctor  could 
do  less:  and  less  still.  He  suffered  not 
greatly — never  so  greatly,  he  knew  very  well, 
as  Jeannie  suffered  to  see  him  suffer.  He 
did  not  disguise  from  her  either  that  suffer- 
ing or  the  fact  that  his  malady  made  quick 


2  70  BASSET 

progress.  What  use?  The  boy,  "winged 
Cupid,"  is  "  j^ainted  blind  "  justly,  no  doubt; 
but  the  old,  tried  affection,  which  has  lived 
the  day  and  slept  the  night  at  one's  side  these 
forty  years — which  knows,  by  heart,  every 
look  of  the  face,  every  tone  of  the  voice — 
there  is  no  deceiving. 

If  Sj)encer  did  not  disturb  their  evenings, 
he  was  often  with  them  in  the  day,  in  all  such 
brief  intervals  as  his  double  practice  left  him. 
Quiet  and  resolute,  he  brought  with  him  an 
atmosphere  of  confidence.  He  had  his  plans 
for  the  doctor's  easing  well  laid,  and  kept 
Mrs.  Benet  more  than  busy  in  helloing  him 
to  carry  them  out. 

The  day  soon  came- — sooner  than  Spencer, 
or  he  himself,  had  foreseen — when  old  Richard 
could  not  rise  from  his  bed.  Dr.  Adams 
came  down  again  from  London,  and  as  he 
bade  JNIrs.  Benet  good-bye,  said  to  her — with 
all  his  experience  in  finding  cheerful  state- 
ments it  was  the  best  he  could  think  of — 
"  Well,  you  have  a  first-class  man  in  Spencer 
— too  good  for  a  country  village  " ;  and  he 
liked  her  the  better  (she  had  appeared  to  him 
as  a  repellent  old  woman)  when  she  answered, 
"  So  was  my  husband — much  too  good." 

Soon  it  became  necessary  that  some   one 


AN  ENDING  271 

should  sit  up  at  nights  with  the  sick  man. 
As  it  greatly  distressed  him  if  his  wife  missed 
her  usual  rest,  she  went  to  bed,  and  since 
Richard  so  much  wished  it,  tried  to  sleep 
and  sometimes  succeeded,  while,  first  of  all, 
Spencer  took  her  place  in  the  Doctor's  room. 
But  he  had  his  work  to  do  in  the  day,  and 
an  aide-de-camp  was  necessary. 

A  deep  pleasure  and  satisfaction  glowed 
in  Peter  Grant's  dim  old  soul  when  he  was 
chosen  for  this  responsible  office.  He  attired 
himself  for  the  part  in  an  ancient  greatcoat 
and  muffler.  In  an  agony  of  apprehension 
lest  he  should  sleep  at  his  post,  he  sat,  in  his 
stocking-feet,  on  a  very  hard,  straight-backed 
chair  near  the  door,  in  order  that  the  nipping 
blast  which  blew  under  it  should  make  the 
feet  so  cold  that  sleep  would  be  impossible. 
He  wrote,  and  pinned  on  the  Doctor's  bed- 
curtains,  a  large  foolscap  sheet  of  instruc- 
tions— slightly  mis-spelt— as  to  the  hours  the 
patient  was  to  take  medicine  or  nourishment. 
When  it  became  necessary  to  put  coals  on  the 
fire,  the  creaking  of  the  boards  under  the 
weight  of  his  great  person  caused  him  suffer- 
ing it  certainly  did  not  inflict  on  the  Doctor. 

Perhaps  it  was  not  professional  that, 
having  put  on  the  coals  with  his  fingers,  he 


272  BASSET 

should  leave  five  large  black  marks  on  the 
bedcover  when  he  next  administered  a  dose; 
and  the  kettle  on  the  hob,  in  readiness  to 
make  a  cup  of  tea  when  required,  seemed  to 
tip  over  if  he  so  much  as  looked  at  it. 

But  in  place  of  the  calm,  efficient,  de- 
tached attitude  of  the  trained  and  hired  nurse, 
this  one  brought  a  zeal,  an  affection,  a  dumb 
sympatlw,  which  professionalism  must  needs 
lack,  and  which  doubtless  reached  old  Richard 
in  his  bed  and  warmed  and  comforted  him. 
When  there  was  anything  unusual  to  be  done, 
the  patient  sat  up,  put  his  old  head — still  in 
the  red-tasselled  nightcap  and  with  but  a 
shrunken  face  underneath — through  the  cur- 
tains, and  told  the  nurse  what  to  do.  And 
the  nurse  verj^  likely  would  have  done  it 
better,  had  he  been  less  desperately  anxious 
to  do  well. 

Old  Rover  always  accompanied  Peter  to 
his  night-watch  and  lay  outside  the  bedroom, 
as  he  lay  in  the  vestry  during  service.  When 
he  scratched  at  the  door,  as  he  did  in  church, 
Peter  followed  the  same  method  of  procedure 
— put  his  head  out,  shook  his  fist,  and  said 
"Hush!"  ver}^  deeply  and  menacingly. 

What  thoughts  the  Parson  thought,  as 
he  sat  there  watching  the  dawn  come  slowly 


AN  ENDING  273 

in  at  the  curtained  window,  and  listening 
to  the  breathings  of  the  dying  man  and  the 
noises  of  the  fire — who  knows? 

Perhaps  his  whole  dull  mind  was  busy 
goading  his  body  to  keep  awake.  Perhaps  he 
vaguely  reflected  how,  when  his  own  time 
came,  the  books  he  must  show  his  INIaker 
would  be  but  neglected  and  ill-kept  accounts 
beside  this  man's. 

It  is  certain  that  he  never  offered  the 
Doctor  any  spiritual  ministrations. 

Once,  when  Richard  expressed  a  wish  to 
be  read  to,  the  Parson  creaked  downstairs — it 
was  the  middle  of  the  night — for  "  Snarley- 
yow,"  and  took  up  that  narrative  at  the  spot 
at  which  he  found  the  Doctor's  marker.  The 
listener  laughed  feebly  once  or  twice,  till 
he  fell  into  a  brief  sleep ;  and  Peter  blundered 
over  the  long  words,  and  finally  broke  the 
sleep  by  dropping  the  book  off  his  knee  on 
to  the  floor  with  a  thud.  But  as  for  praying 
with  him — the.  Parson's  humble  heart  could 
never  have  been  persuaded  that  Richard 
Benet  needed  his  prayers.  The  Doctor's  life 
— that  life  of  simple  devotion  to  duty — would 
surely  better  plead  and  avail. 

By  the  early  morning,  when  Spencer  and 
Mrs.  Benet  came  to  relieve  guard,  the  night- 


274  BASSET 

nurse  had  generally  reduced  the  sick-room 
to  an  extraordinary  state  of  chaos.  Spencer's 
dark  eyes  began  to  gleam  as  they  caught 
]Mrs.  Benet's  indignant  orbs,  when  she  dis- 
covered that  Peter's  heav)^  form  had  crunched 
up  the  leg  of  a  chair,  and  his  clumsy  hands 
broken  a  cup  and  saucer;  and  they  both 
began  to  laugh  a  little — perhaps,  like  Figaro, 
that  they  might  not  weep. 

For,  indeed,  the  end  was  coming — pain- 
fully. 

One  day,  Pollie,  bringing  a  fresh  instal- 
ment of  calf's-foot  jelly,  found  the  door 
opened  to  her  by  Mrs.  Benet  herself,  and  the 
old  woman  silently  signed  to  her  visitor  to 
come  into  the  sitting-room.  There  was  a 
bright  fire  burning  on  the  hearth,  and  the 
large-faced  Dutch  clock  in  the  corner  ticked 
its  loud,  companionable  tick  as  usual;  but 
the  Doctor's  old  horsehair  chair,  with  the 
threadbare  arms,  the  home-made  bookcase 
on  the  wall  where  his  four  or  five  well- 
thumbed  literary  friends  stood  cheek  by 
jowl,  and  his  old  plaid  simply  suspended  on 
a  nail  behind  the  door,  conveyed  the  cold 
and  desolate  sense  of  a  missing  presence. 

The  two  women  sat  down  together  on 
the  sofa,  and  the  younger  took  off  her  great 


AN  ENDING  275 

bonnet  and  laid  it  on  her  laj),  and  put  her 
soft  and  compassionate  face  for  a  moment 
against  Jeannie's  stout,  wrinkled  cheek,  and 
tightly  held  one  of  the  old  woman's  hands. 

Had  Pollie  known  before  situations  in  life 
which  have  neither  words  nor  tears? 

In  a  few  minutes,  the  two  were  in  the 
kitchen,  turning  the  jelly  out  of  its  mould 
and  Pollie  was  earnestly  recommending 
Maggie  to  keej^  it  in  a  cool  j^lace  till  it  was 
needed,  and  telling  JNIrs.  Benet  that  Harry 
was  waiting  about  at  home,  instead  of  shoot- 
ing pheasants,  ready  and  anxious  to  ride  into 
Dilchester  at  any  moment  to  fetch  what 
might  be  wanted. 

But  the  Doctor  was  fast  passing  beyond 
human  wants. 

That  same  evening,  in  a  very  cold,  brief 
twilight,  when  Spencer  had  just  left,  and 
old  Grant  had  not  yet  arrived  to  take  up 
his  sentinelship,  Richard  signed  to  his  wife 
to  sit  beside  him;  and  she  sat  there,  in 
their  old,  companionable  silence,  watching 
the  thin  ghost  of  the  face  she  had  known. 
After  a  time,  he  asked  for  a  little  of  the  beef- 
tea — her  good  beef-tea,  which  she  always 
made  with  her  own  hands.  When  she  put 
an    extra    shawl    over    his    feet,    he    thanked 


276  BASSET 

her  with  his  eyes,  and  murmured  something 
that  sounded  hke  his  favourite,  contented 
phrase,  "  Very  comfortable,  Jeannie,  very 
comfortable." 

Then,  holding  her  faithful  hand,  he  passed 
quietly  to  where,  if  he  were  Richard  Benet 
still,  he  would  but  love  her  better. 

In  those  days,  everything  that  could  be 
done,  in  the  way  of  mourning  and  funeral 
arrangements,  to  make  the  survivors  more 
wretched,  was  done,  most  conscientiously. 

Eliza  Pilkington,  dej)uted  to  choose  in 
Dilchester  poor  old  Jeannie's  weeds,  did  her 
best,  and  worst.  But,  perhaj^s,  even  a  bonnet 
hugely  and  grotesquely  black,  and  the  dis- 
comfort of  a  panoply  of  a  stiff,  sticky 
material  called  bombazine,  had  their  uses. 
For  Jeannie  believed  they  did  old  Richard 
honour;  just  as  she  believed  the  expensive, 
heav}^  funeral — with  its  plumes  and  hatch- 
ments, mutes  imperfectly  sober  and  of  a 
jocularity  ill-concealed,  the  great  pall  of 
velvet  on  the  coffin,  and  the  church  hung 
with  black — did  him  honour  too. 

Xor,  perhaps,  was  it  wholly  a  misfortune 
for  her  that  it  was  the  custom  of  the  day  to 
have  even  more  eating  and  drinking  at 
funerals  than  at  weddings,  and  that  she  was 


AN  ENDING  277 

compelled,  with  Maggie's  help — and  with 
what  an  empty  and  aching  heart! — to  be  bak- 
ing, for  several  days,  pies  and  puddings  for 
the  friends  and  mourners.  To  be  sure  Pollie 
and  Mrs.  Jones  helped  greatly;  and  Miss 
Pilkington's  sour  Sarah,  moved  and  kind  for 
the  nonce,  brought  in  home-made  cakes. 

But  it  was  not  till  the  funeral  service  was 
actually  going  on  that  old  Jeannie  found  "  a 
little  leisure  for  grief " ;  and  sitting  in  her 
bedroom,  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  black 
lap,  and  her  eyes  dim  and  sorrowful,  lived 
through — something  better  than  she  had  sup- 
posed possible — the  blankest  moments  of  her 
life. 

After  all,  what  "  had  been,  had  been,  and 
she  had  had  her  hour." 

On  the  following  Sunday  morning  she 
went,  as  it  was  de  rigueur  she  should  go,  to 
church. 

The  great  cold  building  was  still  solemnly 
draped  in  black;  there  were  black  hangings, 
much  tasselled,  in  the  Doctor's  pew,  and  by 
Jeannie's  side  the  tall,  dark  figure  of  the  son 
of  her  old  age.  Hard  by  were  Harry  and 
Pollie;  and  Tommy,  in  the  thrilling  excite- 
ment and  interest  of  his  first  mourning  suit. 
The  whole  church  was  full  of  people  similarly 


278  BASSET 

arrayed;  who  had  mostly  loved  the  old  Doc- 
tor faithfully  and  well;  and  a  few  who  suf- 
fered the  more  at  his  loss,  perhaps,  that  they 
had  not  loved  him  stauncher  and  better. 
Sir  John  had  staj^ed  at  the  Rectory  in  order 
to  be  present  at  the  funeral  (the  Chantry 
being  shut  up),  and  was  also  in  his  place 
to-day. 

Poor  Peter,  knowing  an  original  funeral 
sermon  would  be  expected  of  him,  had  set  ink, 
quills,  and  manuscript  before  him  on  his  table 
in  his  study,  and  spent  hours  gazing  des- 
perately at  them,  just  as  he  had  done  when 
he  first  took  Orders — and  with  the  same  re- 
sult. If  he  had  not  lost,  by  disuse,  the  feeble 
power  he  had  ever  had  of  expressing  himself, 
the  very  strength  of  his  feelings  would  have 
made  him  dumb;  and  the  faltering,  gruff 
tones  in  which  he  delivered  bought  hanalites 
were  really  a  better  witness  to  his  affection 
and  sorrow,  than  the  suitable  and  sonorous 
phrases  in  wliich  a  Parson  Pilkington  might 
have  borne  testimony  to  a  friend. 

Rachel,  indeed,  with  her  sensitive  face 
flushed  and  her  ej'es  full  of  tears,  could  not 
help  whispering  to  Pollie,  as  they  came  out 
of  church  together,  that  she  thought  INIr. 
Grant's   sermon    dreadfully   inadequate;    but 


AN  ENDING  279 

that  shrewder  woman,  old  Jeaniiie,  made  no 
such  mistake. 

For  a  few  days,  Spencer  did  not  intrude 
even  his  presence  on  his  friend's  grief.  On 
the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  after  the 
funeral  he  apj)eared  in  the  parlour  at  her  five 
o'clock  dinner  time,  with  a  newspaper  parcel, 
exuding  under-clothes,  beneath  his  arm;  hav- 
ing left  snowy  coat  and  hat  in  the  hall.  He 
put  down  the  parcel  on  the  sofa,  and  said 
simply,  "  I've  come  to  dinner." 

"  You  can't.  There  isn't  enough,"  answers 
Mrs.  Benet,  shortly,  just  beginning  her  meal. 

"  Plenty,"  says  Spencer,  with  the  old  light 
coming  into  his  deep  eyes;  and  he  lifted  up 
the  cover  of  the  dish  in  front  of  her,  and  sat 
down  in  his  usual  place  at  her  side.  Maggie 
brought  in  an  extra  knife,  fork,  and  plate; 
and,  after  a  time,  as  the  diners  talked 
together,  the  harsh,  sad  lines  on  old  Jeannie's 
face  relaxed  a  little. 

When  the  table  was  cleared,  Spencer  put 
his  parcel  on  it,  inserted  a  large  forefinger 
through  a  still  larger  hole  in  a  sock,  and  said, 
"  Not  a  soul  has  touched  them  for  six  weeks, 
except  the  stitches  in  time  I  put  in  myself." 

"  And  they  are  worse  than  nothing," 
answers  Mrs.  Benet ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  she 


2  8o  BASSET 

fetched  her  serviceable  workbox  and  began  to 
darn,  while  Spencer  took — deliberately  and  as 
if  by  intention — the  Doctor's  armchair;  and 
the  two  sat  in  silence,  with  the  Dutch  clock 
ticking  accompaniment  to  their  thoughts. 

After  a  while,  Sj^encer  said,  "  Shall  you 
stay  on  here?  " 

He  knew  the  contents  of  the  Doctor's 
brief  and  very  simple  will,  w  hich  had  left  his 
little  all  absolutely  and  without  restriction  to 
the  wdfe  whom  he  had  trusted  as  his  own  soul, 
and  which  had  expressed  no  further  direction 
or  W'ish. 

"Why  not?"  said  Mrs.  Benet,  briefly. 

After  a  time,  he  asked,  "  And  what  will 
you  do?  " 

"  Keep  house,"  says  Jeannie,  with  a  catch 
in  her  breath. 

In  a  long  pause  they  both  thought,  in 
their  different  fashions,  how,  if  it  be  the  best 
thing  in  the  w^orld  for  the  woman  to  keep 
house  for  the  man  she  loves,  it  is  the  dreariest 
of  all  dreary  and  selfish  things  to  live  to 
keep  house  for  herself  alone. 

About  seven  o'clock  Spencer  rose  to  go; 
and  Jeannie,  darning,  raised  her  head. 

"  Shall  you  be  in  to-morrow? " 

"  Every  day,"  says  Spencer. 


AN  ENDING  281 

Mrs.  Benet  observed  that  he  had  better 
leave  liis  shirts  behind  him,  as  their  condition 
was  disgraceful;  and  as  he  was  going  out  of 
the  door,  she  called  to  him  to  mind  and  see 
that  lazy,  slatternly  thing — this  was  her 
usual  synonym  for  the  proprietress  of  Myrtle 
Cottage — warmed  his  bed  with  the  warming- 
pan  on  these  cold  nights.  So  that  Spencer, 
walking  quickl)^  home  in  the  darkness,  knew 
his  visit  had  attained  its  object. 

When,  presently,  Mrs.  Benet  went  to 
Spencer's  parcel  to  find  another  shirt,  her 
hand  fell  upon  something  hard. 

There,  brand-new,  piping  hot  from  the 
Dilchester  circulating  library,  was  the  first  of 
the  three  volumes  of  a  novel  such  as  her  soul 
had  loved.  In  it,  there  was  a  slip  of  paper 
in  Spencer's  handwriting — "  Some  of  your 
trash  " — Mrs.  Benet's  deplorable  taste  in  fic- 
tion having  long  been  a  joke  between  them. 

There  was  a  smile  on  her  fat,  sad  face, 
though  her  lips  trembled,  as,  standing,  she 
opened  the  book. 

The  atmosphere  of  dukes  and  diamonds, 
in  which  she  had  always  delighted,  closed 
slowly  round  her.  By  the  time  the  Earl,  who 
was  the  son  of  a  Baronet  had  begun  propos- 
ing to  the  Viscountess,  Mrs.  Benet  had  sunk 


2  82  BASSET 

down  on  her  chair,  still  reading — with  a 
threaded  needle  stuck  perilously  into  her  bom- 
bazine bodice — and  had  found  for  the  moment 
the  distraction  from  sorrow  which,  in  its  time 
and  place,  is  better  than  all  resolution. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A   BEGINNING 

One  snowy  morning,  before  the  grass  was 
green  on  Dr.  Richard's  grave — or  rather, 
before  the  Dilchester  stonemason  had  per- 
petrated above  it  a  marble  abomination  rep- 
resenting two  angels  flying  to  Heaven  with 
a  funeral  urn  (Tommy  Latimer  took  them  to 
be  portraits  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Benet) — Basset 
was  startled  by  the  news  that  its  sole  remain- 
ing medical  attendant  was  about  to  leave  it, 
for  a  partnership  with  the  great  Dr.  Adams 
and  a  house  in  Wimpole  Street. 

It  was  further  reported  that  Mrs.  Benet 
was  to  accompany  him  and  live  with  him;  at 
the  same  time,  by  his  suggestion,  keeping  on 
her  little  home  in  Basset,  and  occasionally 
returning  to  it. 

Miss  Pilkington,  meeting  Harry  Latimer 
in  the  village,  expressed  herself  as  greatly 
distressed  at  the  prospect  of  another  change 
of  doctors.  When  the  always  consolatory 
Harry  replied  that  should  she  be  in  London 

283 


2  84  BASSET 

she  could  still  consult  Spencer,  she  answered, 
with  much  earnestness  and  naivete — 

"  Oh  no,  Mr.  Latimer.  One  could  never 
believe  the  opinion  of  anybody  one  knew 
personally  was  worth  two  guineas." 

Old  Grant  was  as  much  perturbed  by  the 
news  as  he  had  it  in  him  to  be  perturbed 
about  anything;  called  on  Spencer  one 
evening  expressly  to  lament  and  congratulate ; 
sat  for  two  hours,  smoking  mournfully,  and 
quite  forgot  to  do  either. 

Very  early  on  a  February  morning — a 
morning  of  a  chill,  thin  air,  with  the  first 
exquisite  scent  in  it  of  the  coming  spring — 
Spencer  and  ]Mrs.  Benet  left  Basset  in  the 
JNIanor  chaise,  on  the  first  stage  of  their 
journey. 

Harry,  whose  excellent  spirits  were  not 
damjDed  even  by  early  rising,  came  to  see 
the  travellers  drive  away.  jNIiss  Pilkington 
and  Sarah  were  at  the  door  of  the  White 
Cottage,  waving  good-bye.  ]M  aggie  was 
weeping  loudly,  as  INIaggies  will.  oNIrs.  Benet 
fiercely  winked  back  the  tears  in  her  own 
eyes,  sharply  reproved  INIaggie  for  hers,  and 
kissed  her.  Spencer  attended  to  the  luggage 
and  the  cobs  almost  in  silence. 

They  drove  off  to  the  accompaniment   of 


A  BEGINNING  285 

Harry's  cheerful  bon  voyages  and  au  revoirs 
— of  course,  in  honest  English.  Steady 
columns  of  smoke  were  rising  from  the 
chimneys  of  the  Manor  as  they  passed  it;  and 
within,  its  mistress  was  already  busy  with  the 
duties  of  her  day  and  life. 

Many  living  people  can  remember  having 
consulted,  in  the  'forties  and  'fifties,  the  well- 
known  Dr.  Mark  Spencer  of  Wimpole  Street, 
who,  after  the  death  of  his  partner,  Adams, 
which  occurred  shortly,  specialized  in  the 
nervous  diseases  then  just  coming  into 
vogue. 

Most  of  Spencer's  patients  agreed  that  he 
brought  to  his  work  a  judgment  as  brilliant 
as  it  was  quick;  that  though  he  was  not 
genius  doing  what  it  must,  he  was  talent 
doing  what  it  can — to  the  utmost  limits  of 
endeavour.  Mrs.  Benet  had  several  times  in- 
formed him  that,  in  her  oj^inion,  he  was  not 
nearly  so  good  at  telling  people  when  they 
had  nothing  the  matter  with  them  as  her  old 
Dick  would  have  been;  and,  in  point  of  fact, 
for  the  patients  whose  complaints  caused 
them  little  suffering  and  their  friends  a  great 
deal,  Spencer  had  but  a  scanty  patience. 
For  imselfish,  genuine  sufferers  he  kept  a 
sympathy    and   a   resourcefulness    in   remedy 


286  BASSET 

M'hich  some  of  them  still  gratefully  re- 
member. 

Every  now  and  then  a  nomadic  light — 
Mrs.  Benet  soon  learnt  to  recognize  it — 
came  into  his  eyes;  and,  having  packed  the 
carpet-bag  of  the  epoch,  he  went  into  far 
countries — to  learn,  in  that  age  of  insularity 
and  prejudice,  the  lessons  of  other  peoples 
and  other  minds. 

Xo  one  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  his 
faithful  friend  always  put  into  the  carpet-bag 
a  small  case  of  her  own  patent  remedies 
against  disease,  with  her  own  written  instruc- 
tions as  to  their  use;  while  nothing  but  a 
luck}^  ignorance  of  foreign  tongues  prevented 
her  forewarning  the  chambermaids  at  the 
hotels  at  which  Spencer  proj^osed  to  stay,  to 
warm  his  beds  and  air  his  clothes. 

But  if  she  could  not  direct  his  travels  she 
very  successfully  managed  his  house.  The 
leisurely,  dismal  man,  who  always  opens  the 
door  in  the  consulting  physician's  establish- 
ment, under  her  rule  received  Spencer's 
victims,  if  not  with  cheerfulness,  at  least 
with  promptitude.  When  the  traveller  re- 
turned from  his  foreign  wanderings,  he  found 
always,  not  only  his  house  swept  and  gar- 
nished  and   the   fires   ablaze,   but   that   kind. 


A  BEGINNING  287 

homely  face,  under  its  monstrosity  of  a 
widow's  cap,  to  greet  him  in  the  hall,  and  a 
sound,  welcoming  smack  on  his  back  from 
a  strong  hand. 

It  is  true  that,  when  the  long  and  pro- 
found mourning  of  those  days  no  longer  gave 
him  a  welcome  excuse  for  not  having  dinner- 
parties, Mrs.  Benet  was  hardly  so  successful 
as  a  hostess  at  the  end  of  his  table.  Spencer 
used  to  laugh  when  he  woke  up  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  after  such  a  festivit}^  and  re- 
called her  habit  of  declining  always  to  let 
the  cavalier  on  her  right  carve  the  joint  for 
her,  and  never  speaking  a  word  to  him  until 
she  had  herself  finished  that  operation — and 
not  always  then. 

After  they  had  been  in  town  about  a  year, 
the  Darbishers  settled  near  them — Lionel  now 
doing  modestly  well  as  a  writer,  and  likely 
to  do  better. 

The  wounds  of  self-love  are  often  slower 
to  heal  than  the  wounds  of  love;  and,  but 
for  the  humiliating  circumstances  of  her  re- 
jection of  him,  Lionel  would  almost  entirely 
have  forgotten  Ann  Thornbery.  When,  on 
the  first  occasion  he  and  his  mother  dined  in 
Wimpole  Street,  Mrs.  Darbisher  streamed 
absently  into  the  room — 


2  88  BASSET 

"  A  Lawne  about  the  shoulders  thrown 
Into  a  fine  distraction — " 

and  impulsively  kissed  a  total  stranger  on 
both  cheeks — mistaking  her  for  one  of  the 
dearest  Sophys  or  Janes  of  her  girlhood — 
Lionel  bore  the  incident  with  a  most  credit- 
able show  of  equanimity.  When  her  sallies 
set  the  table  in  a  roar,  he  joined  in  it — if 
a  trifle  faint-heartedl)^ — instead  of  sitting 
stiff,  red  and  self-conscious  behind  his  high, 
fashionable  stock,  as  in  old  days. 

Presently,  Mrs.  Benet,  having  returned 
alone  for  a  few  weeks  to  Basset,  brought 
back  the  news  that  there  was  an  heir  at 
the  Chantry;  that  twice  a  week  a  tutor 
from  Dilchester  sui^plemented  Mrs.  Latimer's 
efforts  with  Tommy's  education;  that  Harry 
had  had  his  periodical  attack  of  gout,  and, 
when  its  first  natural  petulance  was  over, 
felt,  as  usual,  perfectly  certain  he  was  never 
going  to  have  another. 

"  You  can't  help  liking  that  man,  try  as 
you  may,"  said  INIrs.  Benet,  as  if  she  had 
tried. 

Sj^encer  had  not  asked  after  his  friends  at 
the  ^lanor.  Mrs.  Benet  told  him  without 
asking.      She   used   to   read   aloud   to   him — 


A  BEGINNING  289 

sometimes  as  he  sat  in  his  consulting  room 
in  the  intervals  of  patients — the  letters, 
much  crossed,  which  Pollie  wrote  to  her; 
and  Spencer  listened  without  comment. 

From  time  to  time,  he  sent  Mrs.  Latimer 
French  books — she  was  learning  French, 
with  Harry's  hearty  approval,  as  he  thought 
it  a  finicking,  feminine  language  unworthy 
a  man  and  a  Briton,  and  so  eminently  suited 
to  one's  wife.  If  there  was  anything  to  say 
about  the  books,  Spencer  sent  a  message  in 
one  of  the  long  and  detailed  epistles  in  which 
Mrs.  Benet  replied  to  Pollie's,  and  recounted 
the  events  of  her  own,  and  of  Mark's  life. 

It  was  three  years  before  Spencer  saw 
Basset  again. 

Mrs.  Benet  had  preceded  him  thither,  and 
the  season  was  early  spring.  He  walked  from 
Dilchester — as  he  had  walked  when  he  had 
first  entered  the  village,  solitary  and  dis- 
pirited, filled  with  the  gloomy  forebodings  of 
shattered  health,  and  the  determination  to  be 
master  of  such  a  melancholy  and  of  his  fate. 
The  ordinary  observer  would  have  said  that 
he  was  not  less  lonely  now.  But  he  walked 
along  at  a  quick,  swinging  pace,  with  eyes 
keen  and  observant,  and  certainly  with  noth- 
ing about  him  of  the  listlessness  of  depression. 


290  BASSET 

It  was  a  lovely  evening,  and  the  setting 
sun  lay  softl}^  on  the  tranquil  place. 

The  five  years  since  he  had  first  seen  it  had 
wrought  scarcely  any  change.  There  were 
the  old  stocks,  and  the  green;  and  the  slimy 
i3ond,  which  Spencer  had  solemnly  warned 
his  patients  not  to  drink,  and  which  they 
were  still  drinking,  with  more  or  less  im- 
punity. There,  with  its  rose-covered  porch, 
was  the  rustic  inn,  looking  perfectly  pastoral 
and  innocent.  Spencer  remembered,  with  a 
smile,  what  pains  he  had  been  at  to  assure 
his  friends  that  it  was  guilty — guiltier  than 
the  pond — of  many  of  their  sicknesses  and 
sorrows;  and  how  just  a  few,  perhaps,  had 
beheved  him.  At  that  very  moment,  Farmer 
Finch,  who,  by  all  the  rights  of  medical 
science,  ought  long  ago  to  have  been  dead — 
and  was  better — rumbled  past  in  his  gig. 
There  was  the  church,  gaunt  and  bare,  and 
the  untidy  grave-yard,  where  Finch's  sheep 
were  sometimes  turned  in  to  graze,  and  where 
Richard  Benet  lay,  awaiting  the  call  to  nobler 
and  wider  work. 

The  Manor  gates  had  been  newly  painted; 
the  Rectory  gates  certainly  had  not. 

Sir  John  Railton  was  coming  down  the 
lane  which  led  to  the  village  from  the  Chan- 


A  BEGINNING  291 

try.  He  greeted  Spencer  in  his  easy,  pleas- 
ant fashion,  seemed  really  glad  to  see  him, 
and  congratulated  him  on  his  success  in  his 
career.  As  he  spoke  of  it — almost  always 
when  he  spoke  to  Spencer — a  kind  of  con- 
tempt came  into  his  clever  eyes^ — contempt 
for  himself,  that,  having  double  this  man's 
opportunity,  and  not  less  than  this  man's 
intellect,  he  had  achieved  nothing,  and  would 
achieve  nothing,  for  ever.  But  Spencer 
noticed  that  when  he  asked  after  the  heir,  a 
new  expression  of  great  gentleness  came  on 
to  Sir  John's  harsh  face. 

They  parted  near  the  White  Cottage.  At 
Dr.  Richard's  house  there  was  old  Jeannie 
just  as  of  yore,  with  her  skirt  turned  up 
and  her  feet  in  clogs,  tending  the  border  of 
arriving  flowers  on  either  side  of  the  flagged 
pathway. 

The  next  morning,  Spencer  went  to  the 
Rectory  and  found  Peter  Grant  engaged  in 
mending,  very  inefficiently,  the  roof  of  a 
potting  shed  through  which  Tommy  Latimer 
had  made  a  sudden  and  unpremeditated 
descent  on  the  previous  day. 

Peter  and  Mark  had  not  exchanged  a 
letter  or  a  word  for  three  years;  but  they 
took  up  their  friendship  exactly  where  and  as 


292  BASSET 

they  had  left  it.  In  two  mmutes,  Spencer 
had  his  coat  off,  and  was  working  at  the 
repairs  quickly  and  keenly.  At  the  end  of 
an  hour,  during  which  they  had  spoken  sel- 
dom, and  very  likely  said  everything  there 
was  to  be  said,  jNIark  pulled  on  the  coat 
again,  looked  uj)  at  the  roof  of  the  shed, 
remarked  "  Not  so  bad,"  nodded  at  Peter, 
and  went  his  way. 

The  Parson  stood  looking  after  him.  In 
the  three  years,  Peter  seemed  to  have  grown 
but  little  older  and  something  shabbier.  Of 
fate  and  his  household,  he  expected  less  and 
less.  The  congregations  had  grown  slightly 
better  when  the  Latimers  presented  the 
church  with  a  stove.  The  Table  and  puljjit 
hangings  had  fallen  into  rags,  past  all  mend- 
ing. Peter's  character  was  also  past  mending, 
perhaps.  Now  and  then  INIaria,  bustling  and 
worried,  descended  upon  him  unexpectedly, 
just  to  see  that  his  cook  was  still  thoroughly 
married  and  that  he  had  been  doing  nothing 
foolish  as  regards  his  will.  Indeed,  he  had 
not.  He  knew  the  claims  of  JNIaria's  hungry 
and  stolid  brood,  and  that  Tommy  Latimer 
only  wanted  liis  friendship. 

That  night,  INIrs.  Benet  told  INIark  how, 
calling  at  Miss  Pilkington's  a  few  days  be- 


A  BEGINNING  293 

fore,  she  had  discovered  that  descendant  of 
the  Norman  Pylkes  sitting  on  the  floor  of  her 
little  parlour,  with  Sir  John  in  an  attitude 
hardly  more  dignified,  both  wholly  absorbed 
in  entertaining  John  Railton,  the  younger — 
also  seated  on  the  floor  and  crowing  with  glee 
as  that  foolish  Rachel  caused  to  prance  to- 
wards him  her  two  much-cherished  little 
statuettes  of  Lords  Brougham  and  Mel- 
bourne. When  the  younger  John  flung 
Melbourne  from  him  into  the  fender,  Mrs. 
Benet  declared  that  absolutely  the  only  thing 
about  the  breakage  which  worried  Miss  Pil- 
kington  was  the  necessity  of  truthfully  ac- 
counting for  it  to  Sarah,  without  incrimi- 
nating the  breaker. 

Rachel  had,  in  fact,  found  her  niche  in 
life,  though  it  was  a  small  one,  and  she  was 
late  in  finding  it  at  all. 

At  the  end  of  this  little  scene  on  the 
parlour  floor.  Lady  Railton  came  in,  im- 
maculately fair  and  sweet  as  ever  and  beauti- 
fully dressed  for  driving,  having  left  the 
landaulette  and  the  greys  outside.  She  looked 
down  at  Sir  John — who  was  on  all  fours 
and  heated — and  at  her  aunt,  whose  cap  was 
awry,  with  her  little,  cool,  detached  smile. 
Rachel,    instead    of    feeling    foolish,    as    she 


294  BASSET 

would  once  have  felt  in  such  a  situation, 
simply  said,  with  spirit,  "  You  had  better 
come  and  play  too,  Ann." 

Mrs.  Benet  left  at  that  juncture.  It  was 
her  uncharitable  conviction  that  that  girl 
was  too  dressed  out  to  play  at  anything  but 
the  fine  lad}";  but  she  had  to  add  in  justice 
that  she  had  seen  the  greys  pawing  the 
ground  without  for  another  ten  minutes  and 
that  she  could  not  be  certain  that  Ann  only 
loved  the'  heir — as  a  creditable  aj^pendage  to 
herself. 

At  the  end  of  Sjiencer's  fourth  day  in 
Basset,  Harr}'  Latimer  returned  from  a  few 
days'  visit  to  a  neighbouring  squire,  and 
Spencer  walked  up  to  pa}^  his  respects  at  the 
Manor. 

That  seemed  unchanged  too,  or  little 
changed.  Dim  and  Tim  came  out  to  greet 
him,  loudl}"  and  affectionately,  as  of  old. 
There  was  still  the  strong  sense  of  their 
mistress'  personality  about  her  fragrant  and 
orderly  rooms.  In  the  drawing-room,  she 
had  worked  a  new  fender-stool  and  a  pole- 
screen.  On  the  manteli)iece  the  shepherd  still 
piped  to  the  shepherdess,  and  the  alabaster 
lady  in  her  glass  shade  held  her  dainty  hand- 
kerchief  and   gown.      On   the   inlaid   ormolu 


A  BEGINNING  295 

table  there  lay  still  "  The  Castle  of  Indo- 
lence," "  Marmion  "  in  a  shiny  tartan  bind- 
ing, and  "  The  Books  of  Beauty,"  with  their 
soft  verses.  Only  now,  evident  and  un- 
ashamed, there  lay  beside  them  the  current 
number  of  the  Quarterly,  "  so  savage  and 
tartarl3%"  and  the  serene  "  Pensees "  of 
Vauvenargues  which  Spencer  himself  had 
only  lately  sent  INIrs.  Latimer  from  town. 

When  she  came  into  the  room,  though 
there  was  light  and  colour  in  her  face, 
Spencer  saw  at  once  that  the  three  years, 
which  had  left  not  a  trace  of  their  passage 
on  Lady  Railton's  delicate  smoothness,  had 
written  the  unmistakable  lines  of  thought  and 
care  round  Pollie's  eyes,  and  that  the  eyes 
themselves  were  graver. 

But  he  knew,  too,  that  it  was  not  the  face 
of  an  unhapj)y  woman  into  which  he  looked. 

She  began  to  talk  quickly  and  eagerly,  in 
her  old  fashion,  pausing  sometimes  as  if  she 
were  trying  not  to  forget  any  of  the  many 
things  she  had  long  waited  to  say.  Spencer, 
in  Ids  old  fashion,  said  but  little;  but  when 
PoUie  recalled  that  little,  she  realized  that 
he  had  spoken  advisedly  with  his  lips. 

Very  soon,  of  course,  they  came  to  the 
subject   of   Tommy.      Pollie   told   JNIark   her 


296  BASSET 

plans  for  his  future,  all  the  time  using  the 
plural  number  as  if  Harry's  affection  for  the 
child  were  as  great  as  her  own;  and,  indeed, 
it  was  only  in  quality  it  differed. 

Then  Harry  came  in  (Tommy  was  at 
Parson  Grant's,  testing  the  amateur  mending 
of  the  potting-shed  roof  with  his  boot) ,  bring- 
ing with  him,  as  he  always  brought,  a  fine 
sense  of  the  open,  and  that  excellent  joie-de- 
"civre,  not  perhaps  in  itself  a  virtue,  but 
surely  akin  to  one  when  persisted  in  to  dull 
middle-age,  in  our  grey  world. 

The  two  men  went  round  the  grounds  to- 
gether. But  it  was  JNIrs.  Latimer  alone  who 
— with  the  keen  wind  blowing  her  curls  about 
her  face,  and  the  slight  smallness  of  her 
figure  hidden  under  her  old  fur  pelerine — ac- 
companied Spencer  down  the  drive  to  the 
gate. 

As  they  w^alked,  she  said,  "  I  suppose  you 
will  not  be  very  often  in  Basset?  You 
generally  travel  when  you  get  away?  "  And 
she  added,  with  half  a  sigh,  "  I  have 
thought  sometimes  I  should  like  to  travel 
too." 

After  a  minute,  he  answered,  "  In  books, 
you  can.  After  all,  you  know,  the  world  we 
dream  is  better  than  the  world  we  see." 


A  BEGINNING  297 

She  thought  that  over  and  said,  "  Yes," 
slowly. 

Then  Spencer  added,  "  Somebody  said — I 
forget  who  it  was — that  if  one  had  one's  duty 
and  a  dream,  one  had  enough  for  life." 

Pollie  thought  again,  and  then  lifted  her 
clear  face,   and  said — 

"  I  think  that  is  true." 

In  a  moment,  Spencer  had  raised  his  hat 
and  was  gone. 

That  night,  as  he  and  Mrs.  Benet  sat,  as 
they  had  sat  so  often,  in  her  shabby,  com- 
fortable parlour,  by  the  side  of  a  fire  which 
the  east  wind  without  made  excusable  and 
pleasant,  Spencer,  reading,  found  Jeannie's 
eyes  fixed  so  long  and  intently  upon  him  that 
at  last  he  looked  up,  with  the  old  twinkle 
in  his  own,  and  said — 

"  Is  there  anything  wrong  with  my  face?  " 

Mrs.  Benet  replied  ambiguously  that  it 
was  much  as  usual;  did  a  little  more  darning; 
and  fell  to  studying  him  attentively  again. 

"  Should  you  call  yourself  a  happy  man? " 
she  asked. 

Spencer  seemed  to  weigh  his  words;  then 
he  said — 

"  I  would  not  change  places  with  any  one 
I  know;  "  and,  after  a  pause,  "  Would  you?  " 


298  BASSET 

"  Certainly  not,"  answered  old  Jeannie; 
"  but  then— I've  had  Dick." 

Spencer  did  not  tell  her  whether  his  own 
content  lay  only  in  the  blessedness  of  having 
found  his  right  work  in  the  world.  But,  as 
she  stretched  across  him  to  reach  her  mend- 
ing wool  from  the  table,  she  laid  her  rough 
old  hand,  firmly  and  fondly  for  a  moment,  on 
his  shoulder. 

After  all,  she  had  his  secret. 


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